


When the Bough Breaks

by CharlieTheUnicorn



Series: The Evil That Men Do [3]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family Bonding, Family Issues, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other, Suicide, Underage Drinking, You know what to expect by now right?, Young Sephiroth (Compilation of FFVII)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:07:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 62,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27792790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharlieTheUnicorn/pseuds/CharlieTheUnicorn
Summary: After escaping Midgar and the clutches of Shinra, Vincent, Veld, and Sephiroth try to make a life together and learn that there are perhaps some problems love can't solve...and some fates that cannot be escaped.
Relationships: Lucrecia Crescent/Vincent Valentine, Vincent Valentine/Veld
Series: The Evil That Men Do [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915894
Comments: 69
Kudos: 44





	1. Phantom

_There was nothing but the cold, dark emptiness of space, the void stretching out into eternity. Then, a fiery descent. An impact. A crater. Ice, ice everywhere, cold and stinging. They came into the crater to investigate. Their screams echoed to the village on the wind as they died. Shadowed figures in a sea of white, blurred outlines of people through the snowstorm, like a television signal lost to white noise. The figures twitched as they emerged from the storm, their motions strange, like marionettes jittering on their strings. They tore the other villagers apart, painting the snow red with their blood…_

Vincent woke from his nightmare with a jolt and tried to blink away the images. They’d been getting worse, lately, the nightmares, and though he could rarely remember a long stretch of time he’d been free of them, they’d been… _strange_ recently. Not ghosts from his past, but disjointed visions that didn’t belong to him, flashes of a past he hadn’t witnessed and warnings about a future that seemed too bleak to come to pass.

_It came from the skies…_

_The Calamity…_

_Lucrecia in his arms, too skinny and bathed in sweat, belly round, shaking with the terror of her nightmare, muttering about the end of the world…_

Beside him in reality, Veld was snoring softly, dead to the world. Somewhere on the edge of hearing, a clock ticked out the ephemerality of the evening, monotonous and steady in its quiet, passive voice. Vincent closed his eyes and tried to slow his trembling, the surge of adrenaline that threatened to call his demons. With a sigh, he climbed out of bed. He’d finally learned over the years to admit when a battle was lost.

The old manor was cold at night. It always had been, and it turned out dying didn’t make him feel it any less. He shrugged on a robe—one that had belonged to his father once—over his nightclothes and slipped his bare feet into a pair of house slippers before leaving the room quietly.

The manor was dark at night too, and that hadn’t changed either, though Vincent could navigate it much better now than he had as a child trying to sneak downstairs past his bedtime, enhanced eyes easily piercing the gloom. He avoided the squeaky fourth stair out of habit, and in that moment he felt like he was seven years old again, creeping down the stairs to listen to his mother play piano when he couldn’t fall asleep, ear pressed to the heavy door of the parlor. In fact, if he listened closely he could almost hear it now, the ghost of her music rising to linger here with all the other specters.

He followed the sound, the tendrils of melody growing louder as he reached the foyer. That made sense, of course, because his mother, or her ghost, he supposed, would be playing in the parlor room just beyond it. He reached the parlor doors, pulled tight to keep the draft out, placed his hand on the surface and traced it absently. The doors were old. Even older than the house. They’d been antiques when the estate was first built, he was fairly certain, and the rich rosewood was worn smooth with age, intricate carvings slowly wearing away under the caress of generations.

This was still a dream, wasn’t it? he wondered to himself, because the music had only grown louder now, and he could no longer deny its existence. So he was asleep. That, or he’d finally lost the last hold he had on sanity. He was rather hoping for the former.

He closed his eyes and slowly pushed the door open, letting the music pour out into the night unobstructed, and when he opened his eyes he found the ghost he’d heard, sketched in shades of pale, illuminated in the cold moonlight, seated at his mother’s piano bench. And for a beat, just beat, he thought it really _was_ her ghost.

“Sephiroth,” Vincent said quietly when he could breathe again. The boy whirled towards him, fingers lifting from the keys, and Vincent realized he hadn’t heard him slip in over the music. “Sorry,” he said sincerely. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

He hadn’t meant to _startle_ him, actually—that was what he was really apologizing for—but he knew better than to imply to a teenage boy that he’d possibly been frightened by anything. So he apologized for interrupting. Still, he would have to try to remember to make more noise in the future. He was sure the boy wasn’t used to being snuck up on. His hearing was far too keen for normal humans to manage.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Vincent inquired unnecessarily as he settled down on the edge of the sofa closest to the piano. The youth just gave a noncommittal shrug. It was a strange turn of tables for Vincent, being the one who had to carry the conversation, though he’d quickly learned that, with Sephiroth, it was simply something he would have to grow accustomed to. “Me neither. I’m not sure how Veld does it.”

“Whiskey,” Sephiroth replied, tone serious, mouth quirked up in the smallest of smiles. Vincent chuckled under his breath.

“That could be it,” he admitted to the boy wryly.

“…Did you come down here to play?” Sephiroth inquired after a moment, seeming to forget for the briefest moment that Vincent couldn’t do that alone, not anymore. Vincent didn’t bother reminding him about the gauntlet.

“For tea, actually. But I heard you playing.”

“Oh,” the boy said with a bit of concern, “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“The parlor doors are thick,” Vincent assured with a shake of his head. “I thought I was imagining it at first… and then I thought it was a ghost,” he admitted, laughing a bit at himself. He understood it, though. Even now the boy looked like a wraith, silver hair gleaming in the moonlight like beams of starlight brought to Gaia, skin pale as bone, clad in a loose white nightgown. One that was definitely getting too short, Vincent noted absently.

“ _Do_ you believe in ghosts?” Sephiroth asked quietly after a long pause, turning to face Vincent and pulling his legs up beneath him on the piano bench.

“I believe in memories,” Vincent said after a moment, “and I know that they can be powerful things. So powerful that sometimes they can conjure up things that aren’t real, and make them feel like they are… Why do you ask?”

“…Sometimes I think I’m haunted,” Sephiroth admitted after a long while in a timid voice.

“Why do you say that?” Vincent asked with quiet concern. The boy was silent for a long moment, and he didn’t look at Vincent when he spoke.

“Sometimes things move around me,” he murmured hesitantly after a while.

Well, that needed clarification.

“By themselves, or…” Vincent prodded, but Sephiroth was already shaking his head before he finished.

“No… I don’t know. I never see it happen. Things just aren’t where I left them.”

Vincent’s first instinct was to gently suggest he might have forgotten moving them, but again, he knew better. The boy was neat to the point of aestheticism, even worse than he was. Everything had a place, and if anything ever wasn’t in it, Sephiroth hadn’t put it there.

“Is there anything else?” he pressed gently after a moment. The boy closed his eyes, hands curling into fists in his lap. “…Sephiroth?”

“…You’re going to think I’m crazy.” He voiced the fear aloud. He sensed, rather than saw, Vincent shake his head.

“Hey,” Vincent admonished, gentle but serious, waiting until Sephiroth finally met his eyes again to continue. “You remember, don’t you, what I told you about home?”

“There’s no judgement,” Sephiroth echoed in a whisper, and Vincent gave a nod. The boy let his breath out in a deep sigh, and Vincent pretended not to notice how shaky it was. “I hear a voice, sometimes,” he confessed at last, his voice a small thing.

Vincent didn’t say anything for a while. Sephiroth hadn’t expected him to. Vincent wasn’t like other people—he stopped to think before he spoke, and the boy liked that about him. He knew that Vincent _meant_ the things he said, that he had taken the time and care to truly, deeply consider them before replying.

“Is it always the same one?” Vincent asked after a bit. _Right_. Because he wouldn’t weigh in if he felt like he didn’t have all the details either.

Sephiroth nodded. “A woman,” he confirmed. Another long stretch of silence. “She… says that she’s my mother,” he confessed to Vincent at last, hesitantly, and Vincent felt his heart constrict.

 _Oh, Lucrecia…_ he thought mournfully, but no. Lucrecia was dead. She had been dead almost as long as their son had been alive, and this boy had no way of knowing her, much less her voice.

“Sephiroth—” he began, haltingly.

“I know she’s dead,” the boy interrupted, sensing in Vincent’s voice where this was going and sparing him the pain of talking about it. “I know it isn’t her.”

Vincent rose and took a step towards him, and Sephiroth moved over on the piano bench to make him room.

“I would tell you that I hear voices too, but I don’t think knowing why would make you feel any better.”

“Try me.”

“You remember what happened in the arena before we left Midgar?” Vincent began after a moment. They hadn’t talked about that day since it had happened, not really. It was a memory all of them were more than content to leave behind them. “After Hojo hurt you and I…” Vincent hesitated a bit, and Sephiroth finished for him.

“Shapeshifted?” the boy prompted.

“Yes. And no,” Vincent paused. “Because it isn’t shapeshifting, not really. It’s letting a monster out of a cage. Those other forms, they aren’t like disguises I can shrug on and off at will. They have their own wills, their own personalities, their own voices. And they don’t just…go away when I’m not using them. So I hear voices too. It’s Hojo’s work, and I don’t think it’s something he can replicate.”

“You don’t know what it could be?” Sephiroth asked after a moment. He had hoped that Vincent would have some insight, some answer for him. The man usually did. Vincent cast him a regretful smile.

“I don’t always have all the answers, you know,” he admitted gently. “But I will do whatever I can to help you find them.”

“I know,” Sephiroth said, tone warm but tired. “Not tonight, though.” The boy gave Vincent a sheepish smile, one of the rare ones that made him look his age. “You shouldn’t talk about ghosts at night.”

“You should try to get some rest if you can,” Vincent urged. “Big day tomorrow.”

“Then you should try to rest too,” Sephiroth countered. “But you aren’t going to.” Vincent sighed, and Sephiroth took that as an admission. Still, he pressed. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” Vincent admitted ruefully.

“Then play something with me,” Sephiroth suggested.

“If you agree that you will at least _try_ to sleep after,” Vincent said after a moment, but he didn’t have to consider it, not really. He didn’t think he would ever turn down the chance to play piano with him.

“Fine,” Sephiroth relented at last, because truthfully he didn’t want to pass up the chance either.

Later, when Sephiroth had retreated to his bedroom, Vincent finally got up and made his cup of tea. He settled on top of the counter while he drank it, absently staring out the window into the night. The view outside was like something from a painting—almost too idyllic to believe after all of his years in Midgar, even though he’d grown up here—all rolling hills and open meadows. This far out in the countryside, the light pollution of the city had faded, and the stars gleamed overhead bright and clear. The landscape seemed cold and distant the way it always did on clear winter nights like this one, when all the bugs that made the other seasons feel alive fell dormant, and there was nothing but the silence and the moonlight on the snow.

He heard footsteps approaching, but didn’t bother turning towards the sound. He knew who was there. Sephiroth couldn't make that much noise if he tried. Likewise, Veld said nothing as he came to a stop in front of where Vincent sat on the counter and stepped into his embrace, bringing the taller man’s lips down to his own.

“Come back to bed,” Veld entreated in a murmur as he drew away, his voice still rough with sleep, huskier than usual.

“I can’t sleep,” Vincent apologized, but Veld just pulled him into another kiss. From the foyer, the old grandfather clock tolled out the hour in two droning bursts. After midnight, then.

“Didn’t say anything about sleep, did I?” Veld rumbled, hands coming to rest on Vincent’s hips, and despite the chill of the manor, his fingers were warm. Vincent hummed at that, kissed him again, long and lingering this time.

“Happy Birthday, Veld,” he murmured as he pulled away, taking the older man's hand in his own to lead him back upstairs to their room.

Simple. Domestic. The illusion of civility, of the mundane. It was astonishing how normal it all seemed sometimes. Like they weren’t all broken in their own ways. And tonight, just tonight, Vincent almost allowed himself to believe it. 


	2. Take the Dark and Carve Me Out a Home

In the daylight, the specters and shadows that haunted the Valentine manor disappeared back into the corners and nightmares they’d crept from, fleeing the golden country sunlight that chased away the dark. Life bloomed in its place. Even now, in the middle of winter, birdsong floated on the edge of hearing. The garden near the manor, gone wild now with neglect, always attracted them. A pair of deer, a buck and a doe, made their way unhurriedly across the lawn, and Vincent watched them from the wide kitchen window as he cooked breakfast. The record he’d put on as he’d made coffee added some levity to the atmosphere, though he kept the volume turned low.

The rest of the house was sleeping—unusual for Sephiroth, though not for Veld—and he let them rest. When Veld finally did wake, quite a bit earlier than usual, it was in a cold bed, to the smell of cinnamon. The cold bed told him absolutely nothing. Vincent could have been gone for just a moment or half the night. Either way, he never left the bed warm; he no longer had the body heat to do so.

The cinnamon, on the other hand, told him that Vincent had been busy for a while. He inhaled deeply, absently wondering what he was baking. It was Vincent’s least favorite form of cooking, as a rule, and though he wasn’t bad at it, it was something he usually only did on special occasions. Which Veld supposed today was. Vincent had started a fresh fire in the hearth before leaving—another little luxury, as it wasn’t something they usually did in rooms they didn’t use throughout the day—and Veld appreciated the effort as he slipped from beneath the covers and was spared the usual bite of the morning chill. For once, the old hardwood didn’t feel like ice when he stepped out of bed onto it, though he still hurried his feet into a pair of slippers, because _not ice_ didn’t mean _warm._

He made his way downstairs to the kitchen, not bothering to change out of his pajamas, because the fleece was warm, and he had no one to intimidate here. He followed the wafting scent of cinnamon and the sound of Vincent’s music to the kitchen.

“What the hell are you listening to?” Veld asked as he passed through the doorway, and Vincent turned around just a bit faster than he usually would have. Had Veld actually managed to catch him off-guard? Then Veld looked his partner over briefly and asked the more important question. “What the hell are you _wearing_?” Veld struggled to suppress his laughter as he joined Vincent at the stove.

“It was my mother’s,” Vincent replied after a moment, and Veld couldn’t help but laugh now.

“Which one? The shitty pop music or the apron?”

Vincent just glared at him for a moment, eyes scarlet and deadly, wearing a pistachio-green apron over his nightclothes. The edges of the thing had lace. “Both,” he stated flatly.

And even though that look on Vincent’s face was the last thing a lot of people had seen before they returned to the Lifestream, Veld laughed harder. Laughed until he was wheezing for breath and his stomach hurt. He couldn’t help but notice as Vincent turned back to the bacon cooking in the skillet that the younger man was smiling now too, just a little.

“There’s coffee,” Vincent informed Veld as he scooped the contents of the skillet onto a nearby plate. “There’s hot chocolate on the stove too, but I’m not sure if it’s ready.”

“I can’t believe you’re cooking in an apron,” Veld chuckled as he pulled a clean mug from the cabinet.

“I always make breakfast in an apron, thank you very much, and if you ever managed to drag yourself out of bed before I finished cooking, you would know that,” Vincent informed him, turning to shoot him another withering glance. “Speaking of dragging yourself out of bed, why did you have to pick _today_ of all days to get up early?”

Veld leaned against the counter and sipped his coffee as Vincent flipped the eye off and hung the apron on a hook on the pantry.

“You actually managed to get back to sleep last night,” Veld said after a moment. “I wanted to let you rest, so I was going to take care of breakfast.”

Vincent turned and regarded him with a fond smile.

“I was going to bring you breakfast in bed, idiot,” Vincent chided gently. “Did you really think I would let you cook on your birthday? We haven’t gotten to celebrate in _years_.”

“I still can’t believe that _you_ convinced _me_ to let you throw me a fucking birthday party,” Veld grumbled. “You _hate_ parties.”

“One guest is hardly a party, Veld,” Vincent breathed in exasperation. “You need this. Both of you.”

Veld sighed, because he had already lost this argument weeks ago, and truthfully, he knew Vincent was right. He made an annoying habit of that.

“You’re probably right,” Veld confessed.

“Of course I am,” Vincent hummed, leaning into Veld as he sipped his own coffee. Veld wrapped his arm around Vincent’s waist, and for a moment he closed his eyes and just enjoyed how _perfect_ this felt—so much like a dream, some days.

“Just like you were right about coming here.” Veld could admit that now as well. In the past year, there were times this old house had begun to feel like home. In those moments, he was grateful the only person in the world who could be more stubborn than himself was Vincent Valentine. Things may have turned out very differently otherwise.

_The three of them waited until the roar of the helicopter blades had faded into the distance and the whipping wind had settled back into a gentle autumn breeze to look away from the chopper and turn towards Kalm. They had landed in a grassy field not far outside of town—close enough to clearly make out the buildings, but far enough away that the landing probably hadn’t drawn much attention._

 _First, they walked to the river nearby instead of the town, because being cold and wet was better than walking into town drenched in blood. Veld’s shirt had been a lost cause, but fortunately, Turks made a habit of bleeding all over perfectly good shirts, and therefore always had extras around in the chopper. The kid’s clothes were a wreck too, even if the black did hide the bulk of the bloodstains, and he’d refused to take the clothes Tseng had offered him. Vincent’s leather getup looked fine. Well, fine as_ intact _, albeit just as utterly ridiculous as always. Veld gave a long sigh._

_“You two can’t go into town looking like that,” he observed, glancing over to his partner and the boy. “Just wait here while I go get you some new clothes.”_

_“Absolutely not,” Vincent cut in firmly. “You’re still limping, Veld. You shouldn’t walk all the way there and back alone.”_

_“Well, maybe we all should have thought of that_ before _we tried to kill each other,” he grumbled without heat. He was too tired to feel angry or upset about the events of the day, too tired to feel anything, really. Vincent went quiet at that, abruptly, his gaze turning towards the water, and Veld felt a vague twinge of guilt. His voice was gentle the next time he spoke. “I’ll be back, okay? And I’ll be fine.”_

_And he had been, of course, because what in this quiet little town could possibly pose a threat to a Turk? The leg was an issue, though. He really shouldn’t have walked on it. By the time he returned to where he’d left his companions, it throbbed almost as much as it had before Tseng had healed it._

_“I really need a fucking drink,” Veld told Vincent when he returned, pressing the clothes into the taller man’s arms. Veld caught the kid cast Vincent a wary glance at his words, at the gruff tone they were spoken in, and he couldn’t help but smile a little. The kid would realize eventually that he was twenty percent sarcasm and eighty percent bluster. As long as you were a friend, that was._

_Changed into new clothes, Vincent and Sephiroth still weren’t what anyone would call inconspicuous, but this was…better, at least. In town, they found a bar that was open this early in the evening—a little hole in the wall with bar seating inside and an open front, where a few tables were scattered beneath umbrellas on the patio. There was a bookstore across the street, and Veld offered Sephiroth a handful of gil._

_“Pick us all up something to read for the trip, would you?” Veld bade with a little smile, trying his best to make the expression look warm. It cost him effort. This day had been too damned much, and this boy had tried to kill him just a few hours ago. And Veld blamed_ Hojo _for that, not Sephiroth, but it still…complicated things._

_“…I don’t know what you would like,” Sephiroth said after a long moment, glancing down at the money Veld had dropped into his hand. Sephiroth had taken it from him carefully, without touching him._

_“Just pick a few out for yourself,” he suggested with a shrug. He paused a moment, thought. “You do know how to use money, right?”_

_Sephiroth stared at him for a moment, face blank, and gave a long blink._

_“I’m not stupid,” he said at last, flatly._

_“Of course you’re not. I just…didn’t know if they taught that kind of shit in schools,” he admitted. At his side, Vincent gave a sigh. It was probably a lost cause, the younger man decided, imploring Veld to watch his language. In any case, Sephiroth was not a normal child, and he had borne witness to things far more heinous than Veld’s potty mouth._

_“If we finish before you do, we’ll come to get you,” Vincent cut in, and both Veld and Sephiroth were glad for the out. The boy left for the bookstore, and the two men ordered drinks, their server arching his eyebrow a bit when Veld had asked for two doubles, and Vincent for a bottle of wine. Probably not the sort of place people came to actually get drunk then, not that either of them particularly cared at the moment._

_“We can’t take him to the Forgotten City,” Vincent said after a long while. Veld glanced up from his glass with an equal measure of concern and confusion written across his face._

_“You know something I don’t?” Veld prompted. That had been the plan just this morning, after all. Vincent was silent for a long moment, struggling to find the words._

_“The wounds that Shinra gave him, they go deep, Veld,” he began at last, speaking into his wine glass. With Sephiroth gone, Vincent had no one left to put on a front for, and he looked drained and…ancient, somehow, eyes too old in a face too young “And they’re the kind of wounds people don’t heal from. That darkness in him is never going to go away. So it’s up to us to shine as much light in as we can. We can’t do that in the Forgotten City, or Great Glacier, or—”_

_“I get it, Vince,” Veld cut in gently, reaching out to rest his hand over Vincent’s briefly. “But Shinra will be searching for us, and our best chance at safety—”_

_“Fuck safety, Verdot,” Vincent said sharply, and Veld fell abruptly silent as his partner closed his eyes and took a few measured breaths. On anyone else, it just would have seemed like irritation, but Veld knew Vincent well enough to know that he was furious. And not at him, Veld understood at length, but at the world, at himself. Because he was_ afraid _, and Veld couldn’t quite understand why._

_“…Vincent?” he asked gently at length. Vincent gave a long sigh._

_“I just need you to trust me,” Vincent murmured._

_“Of_ course _I trust you,” Veld replied in indignation. Vincent took a few more swallows of his wine before meeting Veld’s eyes again._

 _“It’s a feeling,” Vincent said at last, his voice a quiet murmur, almost as if he were talking to himself, and Veld understood now, because Vincent didn’t make a habit of letting his feelings steer him, and certainly didn’t_ admit _to it when he did. “I don’t know how to explain it, but… I feel like he’s balancing on the edge of a knife. I know that first impressions—”_

_“—That was Hojo,” Veld cut in firmly at that, and he held Vincent’s eyes, letting him search for the lie, because Veld knew he wouldn’t find one. “I don’t blame him for what happened, and I’ll introduce myself properly in the morning, when we’ve all had a chance to rest.”_

_A little bit of tension left Vincent’s shoulders, and he was quiet again for a moment._

_“There’s good in him, Vel, but… I don’t think the world has ever been anything other than cruel to him, and…”_

_“You’re afraid it won’t be enough,” Veld finished for him when he realized Vincent wasn’t going on._

_“Someone like him… I don’t know if he has the choice to be… inconsequential. That much power…” Another pause, and both of their memories went back to the battle in the Shinra Building, when Hojo had drugged and provoked Sephiroth, then turned him loose on Veld. Even Vincent—or, rather, the monster whose skin Vincent wore—had struggled to subdue him. He was_ thirteen _. “What do you think would happen, if someone like him grew up and decided that the world was pain? He's angry, Veld. And he's scared. And if he doesn't have anything to cling to... that darkness is all that's left. Humanity needs to show him kindness, and that can't happen if we are hiding away."_

_By the time Sephiroth returned from the bookstore, carrying a few hardbacks in his arms, Veld had conceded his loss._

_Two weeks later, they were settling into a cabin in a rural area just outside of Wutai. The place had been small and cozy, with a well-pump and a windmill for power, close enough to a nearby village to go in for supplies or entertainment from time to time. They had just begun to grow comfortable when the military moved into the area, which meant it was time for them to move out. They spent a few months traveling before Vincent had suggested they come here._

_Veld had argued against that too._

_“The estate has been empty since my father died,” Vincent had told Veld one night on the balcony of their hotel room. “It’s a nice place, Veld. In the countryside, far enough away from other people that we wouldn’t be bothered, like the cabin in Wutai.”_

_“Except it’s not a cabin, Vincent,” Veld protested. “It’s your parents’ fucking_ mansion _. Not exactly what I would call an inconspicuous place to stay.”_

 _“They are looking for you and Sephiroth, not me. I’m_ dead _,” Vincent reminded him. “Do you honestly think that anyone at Shinra—other than the Turks, who you know damned well won’t help—would ever think to check there?”_

_Veld gave a sigh, lit a cigarette. “No. But what about Hojo?”_

_Veld glanced over at Vincent when he held his silence for a moment, and when he met his eyes in the gloom, they were glowing gold, and the promise of death lurked in them. Vincent’s mouth curled into something too menacing to call a smile._

_“_ **It would save me the trouble of having to hunt him down before I tear him to pieces,** _**”** Vincent said in a deadly purr, Galian’s growl underlying his tone. _

_“Thought you didn’t care who killed him?” Veld asked calmly, no longer flinching away from the presence of his partner’s demons. They didn’t frighten him anymore. Not Galian, at least._

_“That was before he made the mistake of making himself a danger to my child,” and that was only Vincent’s voice now, but it sent a chill down to Veld’s bones. If Hojo had been human, even a tiny piece of him, Veld might have felt bad for what he knew was coming to the scientist. Queasy, at the very least, because he knew Vincent wasn’t embellishing when he talked about tearing him apart. But Hojo was a monster, through and through, and he would be glad to see Vincent put him down like the rabid animal he was. A long silence passed._

_“I’m tired of running,” Vincent said at last, anger gone from his voice now. “We all are. We need this. We need a place to call home.”_

Home.

Veld hadn’t had one, growing up. And he’d been excited to finally have a place to call his own, but his apartment had always just felt like an apartment—a place to sleep and cook and store his things. That was all. Until Vincent had started sleeping over, that is, and it was like he brought a little piece of the sun inside along with him. His loft felt bright and warm in a way it never had before. The same little apartment, but everything felt different. 

When he had left for Nibelheim, Vincent’s absence had felt like a sudden winter, like someone had simply switched off the sun, all the color fading to gray in the low light, a creeping chill replacing the warmth it had once offered. When Vincent had gone missing, that winter had settled in to stay. It was then, and only then, that Veld realized what he’d lost. That was when Veld realized that homes weren't made of brick and mortar, but of _people._ It had always seemed unfair to him, that he had only realized what having a home had felt like by the pain left he'd felt in the wake of losing it. He’d never gotten to appreciate it, not really; never got to treasure it as he should have.

Veld wasn’t accustomed to getting second chances. He didn’t waste them when they came.

“Are you still with me, Vel?” Vincent murmured after a while, when he realized how distant the older man looked. Veld blinked himself back to reality with a smile, setting his coffee cup on the counter so his other arm could join the first encircled around Vincent, leaning into his chest. Vincent held him back, resting his chin on top of the shorter man’s head and absently toying with his hair. There was a bit more gray there than there had been before, he noted absently. 

“Until the very end,” Veld murmured against his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually have an outline for this now :)


	3. Calm Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent throws Veld a birthday party. Sephiroth has an unpleasant realization.

It was late morning before the three of them began cleaning up after breakfast. It took Vincent a moment to successfully shoo Veld away from the dishes, taking the washrag from him through threat of violence and joining Sephiroth at the sink. Grumbling a bit—not because he was actually irritated, but because Veld had no idea how to let people spoil him—he busied himself putting away leftovers. There was a fairly absurd amount of cinnamon rolls still on the pan. Briefly, Veld cast a questioning gaze at Vincent, but after a beat he understood, and he couldn’t help but laugh a little.

“What?” Sephiroth inquired quietly from the sink, realizing he’d been left out of a joke.

“Tseng has a sweet tooth he won’t admit to,” Vincent explained simply.

“Gaia, the poor thing probably hasn’t had junk food in years,” Veld chuckled. “He’ll never get it for himself. Should have told someone back at Shinra to slip him a blueberry scone every once in a while for me.”

Even though they were expecting company— _talking_ about said company, even—Vincent and Sephiroth still stiffened briefly at the distant roar of an engine. Vincent relaxed again almost immediately, registering the noise for what it was, though he couldn’t help but notice the tension didn’t leave Sephiroth’s shoulders.

“Tseng’s here,” Vincent said—to Veld, but for Sephiroth’s sake. Veld listened for a moment, heard nothing, shook his head with a sigh and a brief roll of his eyes, and went back to what he was doing.

Vincent’s words did seemed to quell a little bit of the teenager’s unease, the bit of it caused by the brief panic at stranger approaching the manor before registering who it was, at least. His eyes remained wary though, because this was a new experience for him, having visitors. They went into the village occasionally, were even somewhat friendly with a few of the locals now, but inviting company over was imprudent in more ways than one. Family was, of course, an exception to that rule, and Tseng was nothing if not family.

“ _Now_ Tseng is here,” Veld said pointedly after a long moment, when the hum of his bike’s engine finally became audible to his ears.

“You’re still in your pajamas, you know,” Vincent observed with mild amusement. Veld gave a resigned swear. Too late to change now.

“Oh well,” he shrugged at last, making his way towards the front door. Vincent remained behind with Sephiroth briefly, because he knew the boy was still uncomfortable with this. It was getting harder to think of him as a boy, lately. He looked older than his fifteen years, and acted it, in most ways.

“You don’t have to worry,” Vincent assured the him. “He’s family.”

“I know that I should trust him,” Sephiroth replied, looking out the window at the approaching motorcycle. Vincent noticed he said “should” and knew it wasn’t unintentional.

“You don’t have to trust anyone you feel hasn’t earned it,” Vincent reassured him. “Though, I agree, you _should_ trust him. Regardless, that isn’t what I meant.”

He sighed and turned to meet the boy’s gaze, realizing with vague surprise that they were nearly eye-to-eye now. When had he gotten so tall? Vincent spoke gently and straightforwardly then, the way he only did on rare occasions when they were alone and the vulnerability wouldn’t make the youth bristle.

“He isn’t going to push you,” Vincent murmured. “Or judge you. If you don’t feel like talking, don’t talk. If you want to step out for a while, go. No one will be offended. There’s no one here you need to prove yourself to.”

Sephiroth wasn’t good with people. He had taken after Vincent in that, unfortunately, not Lucrecia, and his upbringing under Shinra’s control certainly hadn’t helped matters. He could hide it for a while behind his wit and a charming smile, but it cost him effort—less and less of it as time went on and he grew more comfortable, but still. That was with Vincent and Veld, and Vincent knew that no matter how many times he insisted Tseng was a friend, Sephiroth wouldn’t believe it until he’d proven it to him.

At last, Sephiroth gave a little nod of confirmation.

“Let’s go say hello, then.”

Veld was shivering on the front lawn when Tseng pulled to the end of the long driveway and cut the engine, hanging his aviator goggles on one handlebar and tucking his riding gloves into his pocket before looking up and casting Veld a warm smile. It had been a little more than two years since they had last seen each other, and it felt like an eternity and an instant all at once. Tseng hadn’t changed.

“Hey, boss,” Veld greeted wryly, stepping forward to wrap the recently-appointed Director of the Department of Administrative Research in a crushing hug. Tseng returned it with a chuckle before taking a step back and looking Veld over.

“You look like a fucking lumberjack, Veld,” Tseng observed, his tone some mixture of amusement and playful teasing. Veld looked vaguely offended by that.

“I mean, it’s been a few days since I’ve trimmed my beard, but it isn’t _that_ scruffy,” he protested, rubbing absently at said beard, as if trying to tell what might possibly be offensive about it.

“It’s the flannel, Veld.”

Vincent’s voice came from just behind him, and he barely managed not to jump. Vincent had always been too damned quiet when he moved, but it was really just ridiculous now. He usually took it upon himself to intentionally make a bit of noise for Veld’s sake, but occasionally Veld thought he just reveled in scaring the piss out of him. 

“That makes more sense,” Veld observed. He glanced over Tseng’s shoulder to the motorcycle behind him, giving a low whistle at the bike. “If you tell me the company bought you that damned thing, I’m going to come out of retirement just so I can go kick the President’s ass for denying my budget request _seven_ times.”

“Have you considered that maybe I have more tact than you, Veld?” Tseng prompted thoughtfully, a gleam in his eye.

“Who doesn’t?”

Tseng glanced up at the unfamiliar voice, only now noticing the teenager lurking in Vincent’s shadow, his pallor and that unnatural silver hair of his impressive camouflage in the snow. If it weren’t for his hair and the mako-green of his eyes, the age difference between the two, the boy could have been Vincent’s twin instead of his shadow. He’d inherited his father’s ridiculous height—though he hadn’t quite grown into it, limbs still a bit too lanky—and those same sharp, delicate features.

“That _is_ a good point,” Tseng confirmed to the boy with a smile.

The Turk hadn’t exactly met his mentor’s foster child under the best of circumstances, so it was difficult to judge, but the boy seemed… _different_ now. Like there was actually a hint of something human behind that unnatural gaze.

“Good to see you again, Sephiroth,” Tseng said sincerely before turning his gaze to Veld’s ex-partner. Well…no, he corrected to himself. He supposed “partner” was still an apt word for what Vincent was to Veld, though it had a different meaning now. “Vincent,” he intoned, inclining his head in Vincent’s direction.

“Hello, Tseng,” Vincent said with a warm smile. “There’s hot chocolate on the stove.”

Tseng gave a little nod, taking that as in invitation inside. They made their way into the foyer, shrugging off shoes and coats. Tseng unbuckled his shoulder-holster too, hanging it on a peg next to his bomber jacket. The jacket wasn’t exactly his style, but it was practical for riding a motorcycle in the cold, and “practical” would always be among the first few words anyone used to describe the young new Director.

“Go ahead into the parlor,” Vincent told the rest of them. “I’ll grab the hot chocolate.”

Despite Vincent’s insistence that this wasn’t actually a party, he’d decorated, Veld realized with mild amusement as they made their way into the room. Strung popcorn and colorful paper streamers adorned the walls. There was a fire roaring merrily in the hearth already, and Tseng drifted towards it for a moment to thaw. He looked strange out of uniform, Veld mused with a bit of surprise, only just now realizing how rarely he’d seen him that way. He usually hadn’t bothered changing the nights he came over for dinner after work, unless things had gotten particularly bloody particularly late in the day. The kid’s idea of “casual” was about the same as Veld’s had been, before he’d moved out into the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere, and by that he meant “hardly casual at all.” He was wearing a pair of black slacks and a patterned button-down. Untucked, at least.

“How’re things back in Midgar?” Veld asked after a moment.

“Do you honestly want to talk about how things are going at _Shinra_?” Tseng probed, arching one elegant eyebrow. “Or are you just asking me because you feel obligated to?”

“I’m asking you because I _care_ ,” Veld corrected. “Well, not about Shinra, but about you. How are things? In general. Not necessarily at the company.”

Tseng settled down on one of the sofas, and Veld sat down across from him. Sephiroth claimed the armchair he was fond of. It was both his and Vincent’s favorite, actually, and Veld secretly enjoyed watching them wage silent war over it. It seemed Sephiroth had won this round.

“Care if I smoke?” Tseng inquired, though he was already reaching into his breast pocket for his cigarette case, because he highly doubted Veld had stopped smoking like a damned chimney in the years since he’d seen him last, and he couldn’t imagine anyone braving that cold outside for a hit of nicotine.

“Just in the parlor and the mudroom,” Veld said in a somewhat resigned tone that let Tseng know it wasn’t his rule. The younger man smirked a little, lit his cigarette, and brought it to his lips, taking a deep drag of poison and exhaling it in a long sigh.

“I stole your apartment,” Tseng said with a teasing smirk. “Even convinced the landlady to leave the furniture. Honestly, I think she was just happy not to have to move all that ratty junk down four flights of stairs.”

“And yet you insisted on keeping my ‘ratty junk,’” Veld observed, lighting up a cigarette of his own. Tseng gave an elegant shrug.

“You have good taste in ratty junk.”

“If I had known that, I would have asked you to bring me my armchair.” Vincent slipped in the room bearing a pot of hot chocolate and the “leftover” cinnamon rolls on a tray, casting his gaze towards a now vaguely smug-looking Sephiroth pointedly before setting the tray on the table, passing mugs around before joining Veld on the sofa.

With the heavy parlor doors closed, the room grew comfortably warm quickly, and for a while they all drank hot cocoa and chatted idly. Veld and Tseng wrote regularly, but always in code, and it made letters a chore both to write and read. They hadn’t had a proper conversation in entirely too long. After Tseng had finished catching them up on a few of the things going on in Midgar recently, Veld mostly took over the chat, spurred on by an occasional teasing jab from Tseng. For the most part, Sephiroth and Vincent just listened, Vincent content to let to other people talk for once, Sephiroth intently, with suspicion that slowly began to fade the longer they all sat there and the more familiar with Tseng he became.

The Turk wasn’t what Sephiroth expected. He had rather imagined that all Turks were like Veld—crass, sarcastic, and almost utterly incapable of being serious for more than a few moments—and while Sephiroth had grown to care for Veld, it had been a process. He knew, of course, that Vincent had been a Turk once too, but he could never think of the man that way. Tseng reminded him more of Vincent than Veld, though. Like Vincent, he was quiet and reserved, but not as serious as he seemed at first. Tseng was….sharper, though, cold steel buried behind his imperturbable façade, whereas Vincent’s hid warmth. Sephiroth didn’t mind, though; he rather suspected it was that warmth that had once gotten Vincent killed.

Sephiroth liked the young Turk alright, he decided at length. He still didn’t trust him; it would take more to earn that. But he understood why Veld cared for him, and why Vincent had invited him here. He allowed himself to loosen up a little, even daring the occasional addition to the conversation. Still, when the fire began to burn low, he was first to volunteer to go for more wood, glad for the chance to step away and regather a bit of his energy.

It had been two years since he had escaped Shinra’s clutches, but Sephiroth still hadn’t broken himself of a lifetime of instinctive paranoia. During his years under Hojo’s care, he had trained himself to be hyper-aware of everything and everyone, searching for threats at all times, and he hadn’t managed to unlearn it. He wasn’t really sure that he wanted to, in fact, because it helped keep him and the people he cared for safe. But it was exhausting. He knew that everyone just assumed he was socially awkward—and he was, he wouldn’t deny that—but it was also hard to keep up with the conversation, all of the intricate tone shifts and social-cues involved, when he was always distracted.

Sephiroth grabbed the canvas sling-bag they used to carry firewood and made his way unhurriedly to the mudroom where the wood-rack was, taking the moment to clear his head. He could still hear the conversation happening in the parlor, but he let it fade to background noise for a while, only focusing back in when he was making his way back down the hall with his load of firewood. He doubted Tseng and Veld realized he could hear them from outside the room, and he didn’t want to walk back in to something inappropriate.

“I thought you said this was a party, Valentine,” Sephiroth heard Tseng say teasingly, words accompanied by the metallic sound of his lighter flipping open and the flint sparking to life.

“Never been to a family birthday party before?” Veld replied in the same tone.

“No, actually,” Tseng admitted.

“Yeah, well, me neither,” Veld grumbled a bit, just now seeming to realize that himself. “But still, what were you expecting? Blow and dancing girls? It’s not a Turk party.”

“You’ve gone domestic on me, Veld,” Tseng lamented with mock-severity. “Never expected you to get soft in your old age. Fifty, right?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Veld responded without heat. “You know I’ve got another year until that shit. Besides, fifty’s not even that old.”

“You’re a gods-damned fossil in Turk years,” Tseng taunted. Veld just laughed again at that though, a bit reflectively, leaning back into the sofa and lighting up another cigarette of his own.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Never thought I’d live to see fifty, honestly”

“Careful, Dragoon, you haven’t made it there yet.” Tseng warned, still teasing and insincere, but Sephiroth wasn’t amused by this anymore. The two men’s words were settling like lead in his gut, because he couldn’t get old, and neither could Vincent, but Veld…Veld was _dying_ , he realized for the first time.

He pushed the parlor door open with a shaky hand before this could go any further, because he couldn’t bear to hear it anymore. Veld was _dying_ , and they were laughing about it. Sephiroth didn’t look at the three men as he entered the room and made his way towards the fireplace, feeding a few more logs to the hungry flames.

“Go ahead and bank that, Sephiroth,” Vincent bade from the sofa. “It’s almost time for dinner.”

Throughout dinner, Vincent couldn’t help but notice, the boy was unusually quiet. He wasn’t sure if the others could tell—silence wasn’t out of character for him, after all—but Vincent could see the tension in him. He couldn’t understand where it had come from, though. He had been fine earlier, when they were in the parlor, more than fine, really. _Enjoying_ himself. Now…Vincent didn’t think he’d seen him so shut down in more than a year. After they had finished dinner, he tried his best to coax the boy back out of his shell, trying to offer up the one thing that didn't involve violence that could usually be guaranteed to put him in a better mood.

“What do you say we all move into the parlor for cake?” Vincent suggested. “The dead in my family have been buried here for generations, and I would rather not wake them with my singing voice, but I’m sure Sephiroth could play ‘Happy Birthday’ on the piano for us.”

“ _No_ ,” Sephiroth stated with a venom that made everyone at the table tense in surprise.

“Seph—” Vincent began with concern, but the boy cut over him, rising to his feet.

“No!” he repeated, voice rising to a shout, pupils turning to vertical slits. “I don’t understand how you’re all celebrating like getting older is something _good_! Veld is _dying_ , and we’re all just supposed to sit around and pretend to be _happy_ that it’s getting closer? Make _jokes_ about it?” The youth drew in a few deep, shuddering breaths, closing his eyes tightly and trying to regain control of his voice. “Fuck that. Keep playing this game if you all want to.”

Sephiroth stormed out then, leaving the room in stunned silence. A moment later, the front door slammed. For a long while, no one moved.

Tseng was the first one to wake from the trance, reaching out and placing a comforting hand on Veld’s shoulder. Veld, though, turned his eyes to Vincent, ice in his veins, because Veld knew that every word the child had said had been a knife to Vincent’s heart.

“Vince?” he murmured cautiously through the lump in his throat, reaching out for the other man, but Vincent stood before Veld could touch him.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Vincent said tonelessly, expression blank.

“Vincent,” Veld tried again, but his partner was already making his way to the door, following his son out into the cold night air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a bit longer to post than I would have liked, but real-life interfered a little bit. Thank you so much to everyone who has read and left kudos so far, and especially everyone who has commented. I know I haven't actually responded to anyone yet, but I've been a bit down in the dumps the past couple of days and they made things just a bit brighter, so thank you :)


	4. A Deep Slow Panic

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Sephiroth said flatly at the faintest sound of footsteps in the snow behind him. He didn’t turn back to face Vincent, but he did pause for a moment, just long enough to see if Vincent would leave. He didn’t, so Sephiroth started walking again. A flash of scarlet flickered through his peripheral vision, and then Vincent was standing in front of him.

“I’m not here to lecture you,” Vincent stated tonelessly, “but we should talk.”

Sephiroth breathed in to protest, but before he could get the words out, he met Vincent’s eyes and saw an echo of his own agony there. The words died in his throat.

“Okay,” the youth whispered instead.

Vincent gestured for Sephiroth to follow him, and together they made their way across the grounds towards the gardens. There was a small tool shed on the edge of it, and Vincent opened it and beckoned the boy inside. It wasn’t much warmer here than it had been outside, but at least they were out of the wind. As Vincent expected, Sephiroth had left without a coat, and he passed over the extra he’d brought for him. The boy took it with a murmured thanks and slipped it on before sitting down heavily on a nearby barrel.

“…I’m scared of losing him too,” Vincent admitted after a while in a ragged whisper. “I know Veld assumes that my nightmares are all about…what Hojo did to me, but these days, more often they’re about…about the end.”

“It isn’t fair,” Sephiroth said shakily after a while.

“It’s the way things are supposed to be.”

“Then maybe the way things are supposed to be is wrong!” Sephiroth snapped. He closed his eyes then, took a few deep breaths. “Death is escapable,” he whispered after a while. “It was for you, and for me. Maybe it could be for V—”

“ ** _Stop_** ,” Vincent cut in, voice a growl. Sephiroth fell silent abruptly, eyes going wide, because Vincent had never spoken to him that way, with such fury. Vincent drew a few ragged breaths, too fast, and his hands shook.

“Vincent,” Sephiroth murmured, pained. The man’s scarlet eyes closed, and for a while, he focused on his breathing, and Sephiroth let him be.

“Do you have any idea what it cost?” Vincent said after a long while, his voice quiet and toneless. "Becoming what I am?"

Slowly, Sephiroth shook his head. Without another word, Vincent shrugged out of his coat and hung it on a peg on the wall. His sweater followed soon after, and then he just turned and allowed the boy to see what Hojo had done to him in order to make him what he was now. The teenager sucked in a sharp, pained breath, because the scientist had left him with scars of his own, but they were nothing like this. He understood, now, why Vincent always wore long sleeves, even during summer. He had seen glimpses of the damage before—the gauntlet on his hand, of course, and some of the scarring along his collarbones—but he’d never imagined just how extensive it was. It was like someone had taken him apart and pieced him back together with little mind to how the pieces fit.

“The scars aren’t the worst of it,” Vincent said after a beat. “It also cost my humanity. And like I said, Seph, it isn’t something he could do again. Even if it was, why would any of us ever _want_ that? Who would wish this on someone they loved? ...All I ever wanted was for us to grow old together, and I knew that was unlikely, with our profession, but I never expected _this._ I didn't _ask_ for this.” Vincent took a deep breath and sat down, shirtless, on the shed’s floor. “I would give _anything_ to go with him, don’t you get it? To put things right. For this to end the way it's supposed to for us all.”

Vincent had to stop then, closing his eyes and carefully counting his breaths to hold back tears. Vincent’s coat settled around his shoulders, and Sephiroth joined him on the floor, leaning into him a bit. Absently, Vincent draped an arm across the boy’s back.

“Birthdays don’t have anything to do with death, Sephiroth,” Vincent murmured after a long while. “They’re a celebration of _life_ , and every year that we get is something precious. Sometimes they’re a celebration of survival, of making it through alive, and sometimes—times like tonight, they’re just… _celebrations_. A chance to get together with friends and family, and be thankful that you have them.” Vincent sighed and closed his eyes again. “I know it hurts, realizing that living means leaving people behind, I know _exactly_ how it hurts, but that’s all the more reason to rejoice in the time we _do_ have.”

Silence fell again, and they passed it listening to the wind howl outside their shed. Sephiroth's pain and anger had faded now, and mostly he just felt numb. 

“You’re getting really cold, Vincent,” Sephiroth observed after a while with quiet concern. “You should go back inside.”

“You should too. We'll talk about this as much as you need, but...in the morning, okay? Veld deserves tonight."

“…Is Veld going to be angry with me?” the youth asked cautiously after a moment.

“No,” Vincent rumbled, reaching a hand up and running it gently through his silver hair. “He understands. He’s worried about you. We all are.”

Vincent patted his shoulder one last time and rose, slipping his shirt back on and buttoning up his coat before turning to Sephiroth once more.

“You don’t have to come back to the party,” Vincent assured him gently. “But I hope that you do, and I’m sure Veld does too.”

“Wait,” Sephiroth said as Vincent slipped out the door into the night. “I’m coming too.”

When Sephiroth and Vincent rejoined the Tseng and Veld in the parlor, there was a record playing lowly in the background, and Tseng and Veld had broken out the whiskey, though neither of them seemed to be particularly far into their cups, the tone of the room a bit subdued. Veld lightened up a bit when he noticed the two of them enter.

“I was hoping both of you would make it back,” Veld said warmly, though Sephiroth could read the concern in his eyes. Vincent still didn’t look at him. “We waited on you to cut the cake.“ He gestured to the cake on the table in front of them. “But let’s do drinks first, okay? You mind helping me pick out some decent wine from the cellar, Vince?”

Vincent shot him a little glare, knowing this was a ruse, but he followed Veld out of the parlor with a resigned sigh. They made their way down to the wine cellar in tense silence. At the bottom of the stairs, Veld paused, trying to hold Vincent’s gaze.

“Vincent,” he sighed.

“I’m fine,” Vincent replied flatly. Veld just shook his head, reaching out for Vincent’s hand.

“You _aren’t_ ,” he protested gently. “We should talk about this.”

“What is there to talk about, Veld? How will talking change anything? It can’t, so why bother?”

“Because you’re _hurting_ , Vin,” Veld murmured sadly. Vincent closed his eyes at that, but Veld could still see the glimmer of tears along his lash-line. He stepped forward and wrapped the taller man in a hug. “Hey,” he soothed. For a long while, they just held each other, until finally, Vincent’s breathing came evenly again, and he stepped away just enough to meet Veld’s eyes.

“We can’t stop time, Vel,” he lamented. “So, please. Let’s just enjoy the time we _do_ have while we can. There’s no use lingering on this.”

Veld gave a long sigh. “I really don’t know what wine you’d like,” he prompted after a moment, because Vincent was right, today wasn’t the day to linger on this. A few moments later, when they were back upstairs, Veld waved Vincent on towards the sofa. “Sit,” he implored. “I’ll pour.”

Veld crossed the parlor to the liquor cabinet against the wall, pulling out a wine glass before pausing for a brief moment, grabbing two, and shooting Vincent a questioning, meaningful glance. The younger man simply shrugged, as if to say “why not?” so Veld brought both glasses back to the table and filled them with red wine, passing one to Vincent before offering the second to Sephiroth.

“…Really?” Sephiroth asked cautiously after a moment.

“If you want it,” Veld replied with a shrug. “I don’t see any harm in it. It’s a special occasion, after all.” And Gaia, did they _all_ need some booze right now, he added to himself silently. It would turn into one hell of an awkward night without it, he suspected. The kid took a cautious sip of the wine, made the barest hint of a face, and took a slightly deeper drink.

“It’s an acquired taste,” Vincent admitted with a small smile. “And that is not the vintage I would have picked for someone’s first drink,” he said pointedly, this directed at Veld.

“Look, inspiration struck suddenly, alright?” he said to Vincent before casting a smile in Sephiroth’s direction. “It didn’t seem right to leave you out,” he admitted to the boy. “After all, you’re not a kid anymore.”

Sephiroth had a higher alcohol tolerance than he should have, to be a skinny little thing who had never drank before, but a couple of glasses of Vincent’s wine left him well on his way to tipsy. It wasn’t until he rose to flip the record over that the boy seemed to notice it himself, surprised at how much his equilibrium was skewed.

“If you still want me to play ‘Happy Birthday’ before we cut the cake, I should probably do it before I drink any more wine,” Sephiroth observed aloud to no one in particular, but Veld and Vincent were both smiling tenderly when he looked back, and he took that as a confirmation. “Vincent?” the boy implored, leaving an opening for the man on the piano bench. Vincent rose to join him with a smile, and they began to play the jaunty tune.

“Wait, you really aren’t going to sing?” Veld observed after a couple of bars. Vincent lifted his fingers off the keys and turned to regard Veld.

“You’ve never heard me sing, have you?” Vincent asked seriously. Veld thought for a moment before shaking his head. “There’s a reason for that. So unless Tseng—“ but the Turk was already making a rather rude hand gesture in his direction, so he smiled and cut off. “Can you sing, Seph?” Vincent asked lightly. Smiling a bit, cheeks flushed pink from the wine, Sephiroth shook his head.

“Fine then. I’ll just sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to my damned self,” Veld grumbled.

Sephiroth and Vincent began to play again, and Veld did, in fact, sing himself “Happy Birthday” in a rough, rambling tenor Vincent hadn’t heard in entirely too long.

“Make a wish,” Vincent bade when they finished.

Veld closed his eyes and blew out the candles on the cake, barely managing to get them all in one breath, though he blamed his smoking habit more than his age for that. They passed pieces of it around, and Veld decided it had been a good call, waiting until they were all a bit drunk to break out the cake. Vincent’s baking was good regardless, but in combination with the buzz from the alcohol, it was heavenly.

The three Turks drank and laughed liberally, and with the help of the wine, Sephiroth began to enjoy this once more. The knot of dread deep in the pit of his stomach still hadn't completely unwound, but his heart had finally left his throat and settled back to beating where it belonged. As the night wore on, the sorrow faded from Vincent’s eyes, and as the fire began to burn low again, he leaned against Veld and let the older man take him into his arms. And even though it was growing dark and cold again as the fire died, and all the electric lights were dimmed, the manor had never felt brighter to Sephiroth than it did in those moments. Vincent was right, he realized. There was only life here. He would worry about the future tomorrow. 

“Best get to bed before you pass out in that chair, kid.”

Veld’s voice jolted him back to reality. Sephiroth hadn’t realized he’d been dozing. The man was standing in front of him with a earnest smile and an outstretched hand, and the boy reached out and took it. Veld helped him to his feet, steadying him a bit until he regained his balance, sleep-fog and the alcohol a bad combination. Veld expected the youth to step away when he’d gotten his footing and was surprised when Sephiroth moved forward instead, wrapping him in a cautious hug.

“I’m so sorry, Veld,” he said, sincerely, but slurring just a little. Veld hugged him back, and Sephiroth’s arms tightened a little.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Sephiroth,” Veld assured him gently. “I’m glad you came back. The night wouldn’t have felt right without you.” He released the boy, clasping his shoulder one last time and casting him a smile. “You good getting back to your room on your own?”

Sephiroth nodded, but Veld still watched him with a critical eye as he made his way towards the door. He seemed fine now that he’d made it successfully upright, though, steady on his feet despite the fact that Veld realized he probably should have cut him off a glass or two of wine ago.

“I didn’t think you were actually going to get him _drunk_ , Verdot,” Vincent scolded teasingly after Sephiroth had left the room.

“Neither did I,” Veld insisted defensively. Vincent chuckled.

“He had a suspicion that your whiskey habit is the reason you’re the only person in this house who can actually sleep, you know,” Vincent informed him with amusement. “I suppose he’s getting to test his hypothesis first-hand.”

“I’d bet money we don’t see him until noon,” Tseng chuckled.

“Oh, never bet good money against the mako-enhanced,” Veld grumbled. “Fucking bastards. I’ve seen Vince down a bottle of amaretto himself and roll out of bed pretty as a peach the next morning.”

“I’m not sure that’s the mako,” Vincent mused briefly, mostly to himself, before giving a shrug. “But I’m sure he’ll be fine. I think I’ll head upstairs too. Give you two a bit of time to catch up without an audience.”

“I’ll walk you up,” Veld said, rising with him. “Be right back.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Tseng waved the assurance away. “Take your time.”

Veld embraced Vincent at their bedroom door, and for a long moment, they just stood there in each other’s arms.

“He's never hugged me, you know," Veld murmured into Vincent's shoulder at last. “Before tonight."

Vincent smiled at that, reaching up to tuck a strand of Veld's hair behind his ear. "He loves you," Vincent informed him fondly. "We both do."

"Thanks for the party," Veld said sincerely. "It was a good night."

“Mmm,” Vincent hummed, leaning down to kiss him. “What did you wish for?”

“You know if I don’t keep it a secret, it won’t come true,” Veld admonished teasingly.

“Turk code,” Vincent replied into his hair. “Telling secrets to your partner doesn’t count as telling secrets, remember?”

“You think the Universe operates on Turk code?”

“Of course it does,” Vincent replied seriously. Laughing, Veld kissed him, standing on tip-toe afterward and wrapping his arms around Vincent’s neck, resting his forehead against the taller man’s, noses brushing.

“In that case,” Veld rumbled tenderly, “I wished for another year with you.”


	5. Omens In Your Skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tseng expresses his concerns to Veld. Sephiroth has a nightmare.

“You alright, boss?” Tseng asked quietly from the sofa when Veld slipped back into the parlor a few moments later. He turned his gaze towards his ex-partner, looking at him with concern over the cherry of his cigarette.

“Fuck no,” Veld sighed wearily, crossing the room and sinking back down onto the sofa.

“You want to tell me what the hell that was all about?” Tseng prompted, and Veld could read the concern in his tone. “Because if you’re sick or something, and you didn’t mention anything to me—”

“What?” Veld interrupted, confused for an instant before he realized what Tseng meant. “No, it’s not anything like that. I’m not _actually_ dying, far as I know, no more than anyone else is, at least.” He took his time pouring himself another glass of whiskey and lit another cigarette before continuing. “The kid’s like Vincent, I think; he’s never going to get old. I don’t think it hit him until tonight that I will.”

“What _is_ he?” Tseng asked cautiously after a moment.

“Which one of them?” Veld responded dryly, and the only thing more tired than his voice was his eyes. “Doesn’t matter, really. Answer’s the same either way—I don’t fucking know.”

They passed a few moments drinking in silence, because Tseng didn’t know what to say to that.

“Any leads on Hojo?” Veld asked after a while. As Vincent and Sephiroth had expected, the scientist had somehow survived what should have been certain death. And as Tseng had predicted, the company was incredibly cross with him, especially after they realized Hojo had taken most of his research files with him when he’d fled. After Tseng had successfully pinned Sephiroth’s disappearance on the man as well, the Board had been furious. 

“No,” Tseng replied regretfully.

“Well, that’s the man you need to ask,” Veld informed him. “Better do it fast when you find him, though. Don’t think he’ll last long once Vince gets his claws into him.”

“…Are you safe here, Veld?” Tseng asked hesitantly after a while. Veld fixed him in a withering glare.

“They’re my _family_ , Tseng,” he said firmly. Tseng looked away.

“I watched the tapes from the arena before I erased them,” Tseng said pointedly. “I _saw_ what happened, Veld. That kid tried to _kill_ you, and Vincent was…” Tseng trailed off there, knowing from the look on Veld’s face when he glanced back over that his mentor was a hair’s breadth from throttling him. “I just want to know that I don’t have to worry about you, alright?” he tried after a moment.

“You don’t have to worry about me, alright,” Veld stated firmly. “There. Problem solved.”

“I’d still feel better if I knew what we were dealing with,” Tseng admitted. “You really don’t wonder?”

“Of course I do,” Veld admitted.

“There’s really nowhere else we might be able to find answers?”

Veld did, in fact, know a place they might be able to find answers, but he would never force Vincent to go back there, and he didn’t dare send Tseng alone, so he just shook his head.

“You find another partner yet?” Veld asked after a while, trying to shift the subject.

“No,” Tseng admitted. “I restructured the department. I’m not in the field much anymore, and when I need to be, I just have a team tag along. I didn’t see the point.”

Veld sighed. “I don’t like knowing there’s not anyone back home taking care of you.”

“I don’t want to keep you a secret,” Tseng admitted, “and I can’t lie to a partner. Maybe one day I’ll find someone I know I can trust, but… you are always going to be my first priority, Veld.”

“I don’t like knowing you’re alone,” confessed Veld.

“I’m not. I still have the other Turks, and I still have you.”

“You always have a place here, you know,” Veld reminded the younger Turk, “and if you ever need help getting out—”

“I know,” Tseng assured. “I can’t just walk away, though, not yet. And besides, I get that this life suits you, somehow, but we both know I’d go mad here.”

Veld conceded that with a shrug. He would have gone mad here too at Tseng’s age, especially living with a kid. He hadn’t expected to enjoy it so much himself.

“Rufus is poking his nose where it doesn’t belong,” Tseng informed Veld after a bit. “He started SOLDIER back up; enough people other than Hojo had a part in it that they managed to replicate the process without him. I think he’s going to make a grab at power soon.”

“You plan on stopping him?” Veld wondered aloud. Tseng just shrugged, though.

“I’m sitting back and watching for now,” the Turk replied. “The loyalty of the Turks is to the company, not necessarily the President, and I am not convinced that the father is preferable over the son.”

“Just be careful,” Veld implored.

“Always,” Tseng confirmed with a smile.

_Sephiroth was having the dream again. He wandered down the darkened corridors of an old manor—not the one he lived in now, warm and cozy and full of love—but a sprawling, unfamiliar, sinister place that seemed to whisper dark secrets in his ear as he followed the voice down the hallways. It spoke in a language his ears couldn’t comprehend, but that his mind somehow interpreted clearly._

**_Come to me…_ **

_His feet were cold on the tiled floors of the mansion, bare in the icy night air. He knew this was a dream, but it didn’t feel like one. He couldn’t usually feel dreams—only the ones where he heard the voice._

**_Follow me…_**

_Down a winding staircase and along another hallway before he pushed open the heavy front doors and ventured out into the snowy night. He made the long trek up the mountain, blinking snow away from his eyes as he went. A reactor loomed in the distance, not entirely dissimilar from the ones in Midgar. The door opened for him, and he made his way through the machine’s twisting interior, still following the echo of that voice._

 _He reached the center of the reactor, where a woman stood before him, naked, head bowed, arms crossed over her chest, bathed in green light_.

**_My child…_ **

_The woman’s mouth didn’t move as she spoke, but he heard the words again, indecipherable yet echoing in his head._

**_Come home…_ **

“Sephiroth?” Veld asked in surprise as the boy slipped back into the parlor, a few hours after he’d left for bed. He was barefoot despite the cold, but he’d thrown a coat on over his thin nightgown. “Are you okay?”

The boy didn’t seem to register his voice. When he took another mindless step forward, the two men realized that his eyes were slit-pupiled and hazy. The boy murmured something under his breath, words in some strange, hissing language the Turks didn’t recognize.

“I think he’s sleepwalking,” Tseng observed.

**_That one doesn’t trust you_** … _Whispered the voice in Sephiroth’s dream, which had shifted abruptly in that way that dreams do, and he was in the parlor of Valentine manor once more, but everything seemed…wrong, threatening in a way it shouldn’t have been. Slowly, he slipped off his coat. It restricted his movement too much. This was a nightmare, after all. He needed to be ready for an attack._

“Hey kid,” Veld murmured, rising from the sofa a bit unsteadily to reach for the boy. When he rested a gentle hand on the teenager’s arm, though, the boy shook him away, batting him aside hard enough to send him stumbling.

_Back in Sephiroth’s dream, Tseng reached for his pistol. **He’s Shinra** …_ _the voice reminded him ominously._

_Sephiroth reached out for the Turk’s throat, fingers nearly closing around it, but something hit him from behind, hard, and he toppled to the floor. He came up on top of his assailant, pressing a forearm into their windpipe. He sensed movement behind him—the Turk—but the wing that had sprouted from his right shoulder batted Tseng aside with force as he stepped closer. Sephiroth turned his attention back to his quarry, but before he could finish what he had started, someone tackled him to the carpet._

Sephiroth hit the ground roughly and finally jolted awake. Vincent was on top of him, pinning him to the parlor floor, hands tight around his biceps. The man was breathing too hard. His eyes were gold.

“…Vincent?” Sephiroth asked uncertainly. How had he gotten here? What was happening? Why was Vincent looking at him that way?

“Seph?” Vincent asked, his voice shaky. “Is that you?”

Vincent seemed genuinely uncertain about the answer to that question, the teenager realized. He nodded slowly, still uncomprehending. Vincent released him, and in a heartbeat he was across the room, kneeling down beside…

… _Veld_ , Sephiroth realized with dread, a sinking realization spreading like ice through his veins. He’d been trying to kill Veld.

“Are you alright?” Vincent asked the older man in the same shaky voice. Veld tried to say something, croaked instead. He cleared his throat and coughed a few times before trying again.

“Yeah,” he confirmed hoarsely, coughing again. Veld was shaking too.

Trembling a little, Sephiroth sat up, glancing back over his shoulder briefly at the wing before turning his eyes back to his family. He shifted to rise so he could join them, but the glare Tseng fixed him with froze him in place.

_You did this,_ the Turk’s dark eyes seemed to say. _You aren’t welcome here._

Sephiroth pushed himself to his feet and fled the room.

“Sephiroth!” Vincent called after him, but the boy didn’t so much as pause at the sound of his voice. In the boy’s wake, silence fell for a while, broken only by the sound of Veld occasionally clearing his throat.

“What the fuck just _happened_ here?” Vincent demanded breathlessly at last.

“He was sleepwalking,” Veld explained, still a bit hoarse. “I don’t think he recognized us... I think he was having a nightmare. His eyes were…” Veld’s voice broke off into coughing again, and Vincent clutched him close, rubbing his good hand comfortingly between Veld’s shoulders.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Vincent murmured.

“Yeah,” Veld assured again. “Just gonna be hoarse for a while. You know how this goes.” Another pause. “Vincent… I think we need answers here,” Veld admitted.

“What answers? We have them. You already said that he was sleepwalking. You know how many times I’ve been halfway to a shift when I’ve woken up from a nightmare?”

“ _That makes me feel much better_ ,” Tseng muttered under his breath from across the room, settling down heavily onto one of the sofas. “That was _not_ a nightmare,” the Turk added after he’d poured himself another drink. “He was speaking another language—one I’ve never even heard before—and those fucking eyes… Gaia, he acted _possessed_.”

Vincent breathed in to protest, but Veld just talked over him wearily.

“Vin, before you open your mouth and say some shit about that not being a big deal because you do it too, please remember that you have literal _demons_ in you, and that might not be the best defense to offer him.”

Vincent sighed. Fell silent for a beat. “Are you absolutely sure that you are—“

“Valentine, if you ask me whether I’m alright again I might actually kill you.” Veld turned to glance towards Tseng then, finally disentangling himself from Vincent’s arms and rising to his feet to pour himself another drink of his own. Almost dying had ruined his buzz. “I’ve amended my stance, Tseng. We need fucking answers.”

“I can look around at Shinra,” the Turk affirmed, “see what I can find. Hojo took most of his research with him, but—“

“ _No_ ,” Vincent hissed, and Tseng fell silent abruptly. “Shinra still thinks that _Hojo_ has him. If you start digging around and get caught, people are going to ask questions. It isn’t worth the risk.” Vincent glanced helplessly at Veld then, a silent question in his eyes. Veld read it.

“Go check on him,” Veld prompted, knowing Vincent was seeking his permission.

Now that Vincent knew for sure he was alright, his worry was for Sephiroth. After Vincent had left the room, Veld sighed, lit a cigarette, and puffed on it until he heard the front door of the manor open and close again and could be _relatively_ sure Vincent wouldn’t hear.

“Vincent blames himself for all of this, of course,” he informed Tseng tautly, and Tseng could hear the hint of bitterness in his voice. He sighed, took another drink, and continued in a more even tone. “I know you were just a kid when he went missing, but I know people still talk, still tell stories…”

“The Berserker,” Tseng finished for him, eyes on his drink, and Veld wondered absently when the fuck the kids had started saying that like a _title_.

“Vincent just… _snaps_ , sometimes, goes blank, like there’s nothing left but the bloodlust,” Veld explained. “And I know sometimes stupid kids tell stories like it’s a superpower, but it’s not. It’s _mental illness_ , Tseng, and he’s always been terrified of passing it on. It was easy for him to blame himself for everything that’s… _off_ about the kid, and for a while I thought he was right. But tonight… no matter what the fuck he says, that was something _else_. He just hates himself too much to see it.”

“We need to know what we’re dealing with,” Tseng stated.

“Yeah,” Veld confirmed with a wince.

“Vincent is right about the risks, you know,” Tseng informed him. “So if you’re holding something back, somewhere else I may be able to find something, you should tell me.”

Veld sighed. Tseng knew him too well. The kid always knew when he was keeping something from him.

“Trust me, Tseng, if I thought it was the less risky option, I would tell you.”

“You should still tell me, in case I can’t find anything at Shinra. Even in code, sending it in a letter is a risk too,” the younger Turk pointed out.

“…Hojo has a lab in the basement of Shinra Manor,” Veld admitted after a while. “Vincent made me _swear_ never to set foot in that place again. It’s that madman’s personal playground. _Do not_ go without telling me first, and do not so much as think of going into that place _alone_. It’s a _last resort_ , clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Tseng said tiredly, giving a sarcastic salute.

“…Vince can’t know about this, okay?”

“Our secret, then,” Tseng assured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry Jenova crashed your birthday party, Veld.


	6. Ghost of a Good Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The family tries to cope with the fallout.

Outside the manor, it had finally stopped snowing. The night was clear and silent. The snow burned Sephiroth’s feet like fire, but he hadn’t trusted himself to pause long enough to pull on shoes. He was afraid someone might come after him, and what if he attacked them again?

So he had left the manor without shoes, without a coat, clad in a thin cotton nightgown. And he ran. Down the long driveway and towards the pond near the edge of the property, past the small boathouse, into the forest beyond. Though it was dark beneath the tangled eaves of the trees, Sephiroth should have had no trouble seeing, yet he found himself stumbling over rocks and roots, vision blurring.

_Crying_ , he realized dimly. _I’m crying_.

An exposed root ensnared his foot, and Sephiroth hit the forest floor hard, not bothering to catch himself, because he deserved the pain. He curled up on himself in the snow and let the sobs take him.

**_My child…_**

The voice again, echoing in his head, cloying and soft, following him out of his dreams to haunt reality.

“Go away!” Sephiroth yelled hoarsely over the lump in his throat.

**_You are not like them. You are better. Come to me, my child, let me show you…_**

“ _Go away!”_

Sephiroth felt the presence of the voice leave him like something physical, and he gave himself over to his sorrow once more. The nightmare came back to him in flashes. Only, he realized with a sick feeling, it hadn’t been a nightmare. It was _real_. The end, at least, the worst part, the part where...

_I tried to kill Veld._ The realization hadn’t hurt any less the second time than it had the first, and for a moment that pain hit him so hard it left him breathless, and he couldn’t think. When his mind started working again, it assaulted him with memories, and he wasn’t sure if they were meant to make him feel better or worse, but he couldn’t find the willpower to tear himself away from them.

_Sephiroth was in bed at their room at the inn in Kalm, curled up in the dark with one of the hardbacks he’d bought when they’d arrived the afternoon before. Vincent was still asleep in the other bed. He hadn’t slept the night before. Sephiroth knew, because he’d struggled to rest as well. It still felt vaguely surreal, being out of Shinra’s clutches, in a new location, and he couldn’t stop looking over his shoulder long enough to turn his mind off and drift into slumber._

_Sephiroth stiffened at the sound of the door handle turning, and by the time it swung inwards, the boy had leaped from bed and dropped into a fighting stance, ready to spring to the intruder._

_“Shit,” Veld swore when he noticed the boy in the gloom, tensing up just the slightest bit before relaxing again and making his way into the room, locking the door back behind him. “Sorry, kid. You startled me. I didn’t expect anyone to be up yet.”_

_Vincent was stirring on the other bed now, woken by the sound of the door opening and Veld’s voice, and Sephiroth allowed himself to relax a little, though he still watched Veld with suspicious eyes._

_“I brought breakfast,” Veld announced to his partner as he sat up, but Vincent just shoved his hair from his face with a tired sigh and a shake of his head before slipping out of bed._

_“I’m getting a shower,” Vincent murmured hoarsely, making his way to the small bathroom adjoining their room. Veld placed the box of pastries he was carrying down on the nightstand and sank down into the room’s single chair. In the bathroom, the water turned on._

_“I stopped by the bakery in town to get us all breakfast,” Veld said after a brief moment of tense silence. “I wasn’t sure what you might like, so I just picked out a few things. Just save one of the almond danishes for Vince. They’re his favorite.”_

_Sephiroth didn’t respond. Or move. Veld sighed, and when he spoke again his voice was gentle, warm in a way the youth wasn’t used to._

_“Look, yesterday was a fucking mess, alright? You, me, and Vincent were supposed to meet up after training, catch the train, drink complementary tea on our way here, and get to know each other a little, but Hojo blew that plan all to hell. So let’s try again today, okay?”_

_Sephiroth blinked. “…I tried to kill you,” he said in a numbed voice that clearly questioned Veld’s sanity. The man just shrugged, though, flipping open a butane lighter and drawing out a cigarette._

_“Most of my friends have,” he admitted nonchalantly. He sighed again, and the levity left him. He fixed Sephiroth with a serious stare. “I blame_ Hojo _for that, kid. Everybody has a breaking point. He intentionally pushed you past yours, and aimed you at me.”_

_“I could have hurt you,” Sephiroth said, as if that might not have occurred to him._

_“But you didn’t. I’m fine. We’re_ all _fine, and that’s the only thing I give a damn about, okay? So what do you say we give this another go?” The Turk extended his hand towards him then, grinning around his cigarette. “I’m Veld.”_

_After a brief hesitation, the boy reached out and took his hand, allowing Veld to give it a firm shake._

_“Sephiroth,” the teenager replied in mild awe._

The Turk had always trusted in him, always seen the good in him, _always_ , even when Sephiroth couldn’t do those things himself. No, the boy corrected, _especially_ when he couldn’t do those things himself. And Veld had always been there for him, even though no one had really asked him to be.

_Sephiroth woke from his nightmare to a slight weight on his shoulder and a familiar, gravelly voice calling his name. The moment his eyes flickered open, the pressure on his shoulder vanished, Veld moving his hand away once the man was sure he’d woken._

_“Sorry, kid,” Veld said tiredly, his voice rougher than usual. Sephiroth must have woken him, then. “You were having a nightmare.”_

_“Where’s Vincent?” Sephiroth asked sleepily, realizing that he and Veld were alone in the little hotel room they’d all been sharing for the past few days. He couldn’t even remember what city they were staying in anymore. They had all started to blur. Outside the window, a car alarm started blaring._

_“He went for a walk,” Veld informed him, rising from where he was kneeling at Sephiroth’s bedside and settling down on the edge of his own bed. “Guess he couldn’t sleep either. I’m not having the best time of it myself, honestly. Maybe it’s the moon or something.”_

_“The moon?” Sephiroth echoed with confusion._

_“Some people believe that the position of the moon and the planets and can affect people’s moods down here on Gaia,” Veld explained._

_“That sounds like superstitious bullshit,” Sephiroth observed, and Veld gave a little snort._

_“Don’t let Vince hear you talking like that, or he’ll be on my ass about my swearing,” the man chuckled with amusement. “But yeah, it does sound like superstitious bullshit, doesn’t it? Probably just too damned noisy to sleep. I think we all got used to the countryside.”_

_“…I overheard you and Vincent talking the other day, about his parent’s house,” Sephiroth admitted. “It sounded… nice. And… Vincent’s right. I_ am _tired of running.”_

_“Two against one, eh?” Veld gave a soft sigh._

_“I know that you’re worried—“_

_“You win, okay?” Veld relented gently. “Look, it_ is _a risk, settling down in a place so conspicuous, and I hesitated because I want you to be safe. But for the most part I trust myself and Vincent to keep you that way, and I want you to be_ happy _too. If that means a little bit of risk…” Veld trailed off and cast Sephiroth a little smile. “It’ll be worth it.”_

Vincent’s love for Sephiroth had always been fierce and devoted and doting and _warm_ , and the youth had never questioned it, not even back in the days he hadn’t been entirely sure he’d returned it.

But Veld wasn’t like Vincent. Not at all. It had confused him for the longest time, how two people so fundamentally different managed to get along so well. Veld was crass and sarcastic, wearing his self-confident swagger like armor, commanding attention where Vincent always sought to fade into the shadows. He was quick to anger, quick to resort to violence, and quick to shake both of things off like they had never happened once he was finished with them. It had taken Sephiroth a while to realize that the two men were different sides of the same coin, made of the same mettle despite all appearance otherwise.

Veld loved differently than Vincent too, and it had taken him a while to learn to read that as well.

Veld’s love was cautious and quiet, at least at first. He didn’t test boundaries, didn’t push, always tested the waters before he acted. He loved like he thought it was a dangerous thing—not because he was afraid of _being_ hurt, but because he was afraid of _causing_ hurt—as if his love were something he might accidentally harm someone with.

 _Sephiroth couldn’t even remember what they’d been arguing about, the day he and Veld had gotten into a screaming match and he’d told the man he hated him, but he still remembered the look on the Turk’s face when he’d uttered the words. Veld’s anger had vanished in an instant and he just looked…_ hurt _in a way Sephiroth had never seen him look before._

_That look had made him feel guilty immediately, but he’d still been too angry to apologize, so he’d fled to his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. After a long while, there was a knock on the door, and he bade the visitor to come in with a wary voice. Vincent slipped into the room. He couldn’t meet the man’s eyes as he settled down in his desk chair._

_“Seph…” Vincent began with a sigh, but Sephiroth had cut over him, voice sharp and just a bit too loud again._

_“He’s only here for you,” Sephiroth snapped bitterly. “He only_ cares _about you. He just got stuck with me—“_

 _“He_ loves _you, Sephiroth,” Vincent said sadly, shaking his head. “You’re family to him now, just like I am. And you_ hurt _him.”_

_“I know I did,” Sephiroth whispered miserably after a beat. “I was just angry. I didn’t mean it.”_

_“I know that,” Vincent soothed, “and I’m sure he does too, but you still need to apologize.”_

_Morosely, Sephiroth nodded and rose to his feet. He paused at his door though, turning back to glance at Vincent briefly though the curtain of his silver hair before his eyes went back to the floor._

_“Do you really mean it?” the boy murmured cautiously. “About him loving me?”_

_“I do,” Vincent confirmed with a smile, “but why don’t you ask him yourself?”_

_Sephiroth made his way downstairs and followed the sound of running water until he found Veld in the kitchen, washing up after dinner. Wordlessly, Sephiroth joined him at the sink, drying the dishes Veld had placed on the rack._

_“I didn’t mean it,” Sephiroth said at long last. Veld glanced up at him and gave a sad little smile._

_“I know, kid,” the man assured him in a tired voice._

_“I’m sorry,” apologized the teen._

_“You’re already forgiven,” Veld told him gently, passing him another clean dish._

_“…I love you, Veld,” Sephiroth confessed after a while. Veld looked up and gave him the briefest smile before glancing back down. His eyes looked a little watery._

_“I love you too, Seph,” Veld confirmed. Wordlessly, Sephiroth leaned into him a bit, letting their arms and shoulders touch as they continued washing dishes._

No one would forgive him for hurting Veld this time, though. Of that, Sephiroth was sure.

He heard footsteps in the snow nearby, but it was too late to try to run. His sobs had covered up the sound of the approach until the man was right beside him. Vincent, he realized dimly as the man knelt down in the snow at his side.

“Don’t touch me,” Sephiroth pleaded in a small voice when Vincent reached out, voice wrecked from his tears.

Vincent draped the boy’s forgotten coat around him and sat down, quiet for a while. At last, he couldn’t take it anymore, and he placed a cautious hand on the teen’s shoulder. Despite Sephiroth’s plea, he leaned into the touch instead of drawing away, so Vincent gathered him up in his arms, wrapping the extra fabric of his scarlet cloak around him too. The boy was shivering violently, though Vincent wasn’t sure how much of that was from the cold.

Gaia, Vincent mused to himself as he stroked the youth’s hair and held him tight. Was this how his own father had felt? When Vincent had his own episodes? How had Grimoire lived with the helplessness?

“I think we found your ghost,” Vincent observed quietly after a long while, when Sephiroth’s sobs had finally quietened. “You left your coat in the parlor when you were sleepwalking. You probably moved the other things without realizing too.”

Sephiroth said nothing for a long while, so Vincent went on.

“Veld is fine, by the way,” he assured gently. “Just a little bit shaken up. We all are.”

Sephiroth started crying again, but he finally found his voice through the tears. “It wasn’t Hojo this time!” he choked. “It was _me_! I—“ He couldn’t say what he’d almost done aloud, though, and his voice broke.

“We’re going to figure this out, okay?” Vincent soothed, because unlike his own father, he _would not_ close his eyes and look away from this, pretend the problem didn’t exist. “I know you’re scared. I…I’m scared too,” he admitted. “But we’re going to get through this, and we’re going to do it together.”

“You can’t fix this, Vincent!” Sephiroth strained in a choked yell. “You can’t fix… _me_.” Another shudder shook his frame, but he was too exhausted to cry any more.

“You don’t need to be _fixed_ , Sephiroth,” Vincent said, gentle but firm. “You aren’t _broken_. You aren’t some cheap electronic we’re going to toss in the trash because it isn’t working the way it should; you’re our _family_ , Sephiroth. We love you, and nothing, _absolutely_ nothing, is going to change that. That isn’t up for debate. We just need to understand what’s causing this.”

“Vincent… what am I?” Sephiroth asked after a bit, miserably.

“I’m afraid Hojo is the only person who can answer that,” Vincent confessed in a whisper.

“…I was hearing the voice again,” Sephiroth confided after a while.

“Do you remember what you were dreaming?” Vincent prodded gently.

“No.” The lie left Sephiroth’s mouth without his permission, and the immediacy of it startled him a little bit. Once out, though, he found himself incapable of taking the word back. Vincent gave a soft sigh.

“Let’s go back inside,” Vincent bade after a while, as the cold began to grow into something physically painful.

“You go,” Sephiroth muttered. Now that he’d finally stopped crying, seemingly for good, he’d pulled away from Vincent a bit.

“I am not going to leave you out here,” Vincent said firmly. “Gaia, you aren’t even wearing shoes,” he realized now. Shaking his head, he began unlacing his own boots.

“Vincent, don’t,” Sephiroth pleaded, but the man just waved his protests away.

“I don’t need them,” he assured the boy. “Just…go ahead and start back to the manor. I’ll be right behind you.”

Hesitantly, Sephiroth obeyed, slipping on Vincent’s socks and boots and starting back towards the house. Despite Vincent’s assurance that he would be right behind, the man didn’t move to follow him, and he soon lost sight of Vincent in the trees. He was almost to the edge of the forest when he became aware of something following him, not on the path behind him, but in the trees to his side. It was too loud to be Vincent. And too big. He caught a glimpse of purple fur in the snow and understood, though.

 _Galian_. He supposed Vincent didn’t need shoes if he had fur.

Vincent stopped following the boy when Sephiroth took a shortcut through the back gardens, where the family grave plots were, because that was a different problem to face a different day. Vincent knew that he would have to stop running from this soon. Veld’s birthday preceded a darker anniversary, one fast approaching, and Vincent would have no choice but to conquer his dread then. But… not tonight. They had all suffered through enough tonight, so Vincent took the long way around.


	7. The Places You Have Come to Fear the Most

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent visits his father's grave and has an unexpected visitor

Vincent didn’t bother with breakfast today. Instead, he slept in, albeit uneasily, remaining cocooned in the covers even after Veld had slipped out of bed to get ready for the day. He listened to the familiar sounds of his partner getting dressed with his eyes closed, the noise too much to allow him to drift back off, but comforting, in its way. He gave a quiet, tired chuckle at the sound of Veld struggling with his wristwatch, cursing under his breath, before finally rolling over and opening his eyes.

“Come here and let me do that, Verdot,” he murmured. The older man sighed and crossed the room, extending his wrist obediently.

“Sorry,” he apologized quietly as Vincent buckled the stubborn clasp for him. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“You didn’t,” Vincent assured, and Veld gave a quiet sigh and settled down on the edge of the bed for a moment, running an absent hand through Vincent’s tangled hair.

“Sure you want to be alone today?” Veld asked him gently, and Vincent nodded. “Okay. We’ll be back this afternoon, then.”

“Love you,” Vincent told him, closing his eyes again, and Veld pressed his lips to his forehead softly before standing.

“Love you too.”

It was a while longer before Vincent finally climbed out of bed, dressing to brave the winter cold, unhurried. He had managed to put this off for the better part of twenty years. There was no use in rushing now. At the front door, he pulled the heavy black duster off its peg and shrugged it on over his clothes. Like most of the things in the house that actually fit him, the coat was Grimoire’s, not his. This particular one had been his father’s favorite, and sometimes slipping on the heavy garment still felt like stepping into an embrace.

The gardens were unusually silent today, Vincent noted without interest as he made his way through the sprawl of untended hedges, camellias blooming in the snow. It seemed fitting, the silence, like the whole world had taken a moment to pause in mourning.

Vincent hadn’t visited his father’s grave since the day of the funeral.

_It had been unseasonably mild that day, the sun warm on the snow, and during the service at the graveside, birdsong had floated in on the wind, sweet and beautiful and painfully mocking in its merriment._

_Vincent hadn’t gone to the funeral. Veld had argued, of course, gently but insistently, but his partner had refused to relent._

_“Someone is going to recognize me,” Vincent said with finality, and Veld knew him well enough to recognize the heat buried in his tone, knew he should drop it, but he couldn’t help but reply._

_“So fucking what, Vince?” Veld responded, growing a bit irritated despite himself. He was going to have to excuse himself from this soon, he realized, because the absolute last thing he wanted to be with Vincent right now was angry. “You’re his_ kid _. You have every right to be there.”_

_“For once, just for fucking once, Verdot, I want to give him the dignity of not dragging his name through the mire behind me,” Vincent snapped, as close to yelling as Veld had ever heard him. “He lived in the shadow of my shame. He doesn’t need to be buried with it too.”_

_Vincent’s voice had broken at that, and his partner had just held him as his anger morphed into agony, and Veld hadn’t been surprised by that, because he knew that’s all it had been the whole time._

_He’d held him at the gravesite, too, as Vincent lingered near the cover of the boxwood bushes, away from the other mourners, just at the edge of hearing, as they listened to the eulogy. And he’d kept holding him as he and Vincent watched the mourners disperse and the groundkeepers moved in to bury the empty casket. Veld had watched Vincent chain-smoke cigarettes and regretted not bringing him something stronger to help dull the pain._

There was nothing to dull the pain this time, either. Not even Veld. His partner had offered, of course—Veld noticed the way he avoided the back gardens, and he knew why—but Vincent needed this, and he needed to do it alone. It felt like a particularly strange twist of fate, therefore, when he approached his father’s grave and found another figure lingering near the headstone.

“Gast.” The name fell from Vincent’s lips tonelessly, too surprised to sound surprised.

The scientist whirled at the sound of the voice, dropping the flowers he was holding and letting out a startled, undignified yelp, and for a long moment, he just stared at the man in front of him, wide-eyed, uncomprehending. As if he were seeing a ghost. Vincent heard Gast breathe a name in shock, one that wasn’t his.

“Wrong ghost,” Vincent stated quietly, snow crunching beneath his boots as he came to join the older man.

“… _Vincent_?” the scientist corrected in disbelief as the young man drew closer and Gast got a better look at his face, and he _must_ have been a ghost, because Vincent hadn’t aged a day since the last time Gast had seen him, all those years ago in Nibelheim. Gast understood how he had mistaken him for his father at first, though. Vincent had grown out his hair, and he was wearing Grimoire’s duster, though it was still a bit too big in the shoulders.

Wordlessly, Vincent came up to join him, standing just a few feet away, and for a long while, the two men held their silence, both utterly unsure of what to say to one another, as they gazed down at the grave of Grimoire Valentine. But then Gast’s eyes turned to the headstone situated beside that of his long-time friend—his son’s headstone, the headstone of the man standing beside him in the snow—and he could no longer hold his tongue.

“…Are you dead?” Gast whispered uncertainly at long last, in a small, quiet voice, still not turning his gaze to Vincent’s silent form. He was almost afraid to look, though he wasn’t sure why. Did he expect the man to disappear? That the next time he glanced over, he’d be covered in the blood of whatever wounds had killed him, like something from a horror flick?

“…Technically,” Vincent said at long last, and he felt Gast’s eyes turn towards him then, but he didn’t raise his gaze to meet them.

“What… _happened_?” Gast asked in a shaky voice, flinching as Vincent finally met his eyes, because those weren’t the eyes he knew—the ones he had shared with his father—solemn and warm mahogany. They were scarlet and deadly and too bright in that death-pale face of his.

Vincent saw the expression. Glanced back down.

“Vincent,” Gast implored, the faintest hint of desperation creeping into his tone. “ _Please_. I… I went to your _funeral_ , Vincent. _Fifteen years ago_. An explanation. You owe me that, at least.”

Vincent’s gaze snapped back to him then, and the expression on his face made Gast take the smallest step back. He’d seen that look on Vincent before when the young man had come to him about Hojo’s secret experiments on Lucrecia and her child. He’d been half-sure, then, that Vincent would kill him before he had managed to convince the boy he hadn’t known.

“I owe you,” Vincent echoed, voice so dry that Gast wasn’t surprised in the slightest when the fire in his eyes ignited it like timber, starting in a hiss that gradually grew to a roar. “I _owe_ you?” Vincent snarled in disbelief. “After everything you were complicit in, after everything that happened in Nibelheim—to Lucrecia, to her child? To _me_!? I _owe_ you?”

“Gods, Vincent,” Gast protested in disbelief, “you can’t possibly think that I had anything to _do_ with that?! We talked about this; I had no clue until _you told_ me.”

“You were the head scientist, Gast!” Vincent growled. His eyes were glowing burnished gold. “It was _your_ project! How the hell didn’t you realize what he was doing? You knew. You _knew_ Hojo was a fucking madman. You knew he couldn’t be trusted. And you knew how vulnerable she was, how naive she was, and you just let her run to him! You never even stopped to question why Lu got so damned sick! You were so focused on your job that you weren’t even concerned about—“

Vincent cut off with a strangled little sound, closing his eyes tight and taking a deep, shaky breath. Gast gave a sad sigh.

“My boy,” he murmured sadly. “Are you blaming me now, or yourself?”

A tremble shook Vincent’s frame, one that wasn’t from the cold, and he clenched his hands into fists, focusing on his breathing until he could feel his heart start to slow. When he spoke again, his voice was the one Gast was accustomed to, quiet and collected, but tired in a way he’d never heard him sound before.

“I do blame myself,” Vincent murmured. “I will spend the rest of eternity blaming myself, but I’m not running away from the consequences of what we allowed to happen. Not anymore. Not while there’s still a chance to make it right.” Vincent glanced back over to Gast then, letting out a sigh, and the rest of his anger along with it.

“What do you mean?” Gast asked in confusion, but Vincent just shook his head.

“Come inside, Gast. We can talk about it over coffee.”

The Valentine Manor hadn’t really changed since the last time Gast had been there, visiting Grimoire not long before he died, though the scientist wondered absently to himself why he had expected it too. Had he expected to walk in to cobwebs and flickering candelabras, a player piano droning ominously in the background? For the place to feel haunted?

It was warm in the foyer, compared to outside at least, and it smelled vaguely like incense. As Vincent flipped on the lights, Gast began slipping his shoes off out of habit. The spare slippers they kept for guests were still in the storage bench near the door. Gast followed Vincent into the kitchen, settling down in the breakfast nook at Vincent’s insistence as the man began making coffee. After he’d put the pot on, he lit the old wood-burning stove they used to heat the kitchen. Gast couldn’t take his gaze off of the young man, _because nothing about this made_ _sense_ and _he shouldn’t have been a young man anymore_ and Vincent was treating it all like it was utterly mundane.

“Milk and sugar?” Vincent asked as he set two cups down on the table. Gast nodded, so he turned back to the refrigerator and fetched the milk carton. “Sugar’s in the dish on the table,” Vincent informed him as he settled down.

“I don’t understand,” Gast said numbly after he had taken a few sips of his coffee. Vincent sighed. “Please, Vincent. You’re right; you don’t owe me a thing, but… _please_. What _happened_?”

“I confronted Hojo about his experiments,” Vincent said quietly after a while. “He shot me and kept my body to experiment on. Lucrecia… managed to bring me back, but…” Scarlet eyes flickered up to meet Gast’s again. “I’m not human anymore, Gast. And I’m not _alive_ anymore either, not really, so I can’t get old. Or die.”

Gast muttered a prayer under his breath, took another drink of his coffee.

“You said something about putting this right,” Gast observed. “Vincent, if you think that I can help undo what he did to you—”

“Not me, Gast,” Vincent interrupted. “Do you have any idea what happened to Lucrecia’s child?”

“It was a stillbirth,” Gast answered quietly.

“It wasn’t,” Vincent corrected. “Hojo lied about that too. He ferreted the boy away to Shinra. We broke him out two years ago.” Vincent rose to his feet then, moving back to the refrigerator and taking down a photograph stuck to it with a magnet before making his way back over to the table. He passed it to Gast, and the older man just studied it for a while, wordlessly, in shock. It was a family photo, one they’d all taken together the day they moved into the manor. Gast couldn't take his eyes off Lucrecia's son, in part because he'd thought the child to be dead, but mostly because the boy looked entirely too familiar.

“Vincent…” Gast began cautiously.

“He’s mine,” Vincent confirmed quietly. “Lu never told me.”

“…Is he… _normal_?” Gast asked hesitantly. Vincent wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“I think that I passed… whatever is wrong with me on to him,” Vincent admitted in a whisper. The scientist just shook his head though.

“That isn’t possible, Vincent,” Gast said simply, letting out a deep sigh. “I’ve known your family for three generations, and you are the _only person_ who ever showed any sign of mental illness. And after… what happened when you were a child, I spent _days_ digging through your family medical history, on both sides, trying to find some sort of answer, but I never did, because there’s _nothing there.”_

“What are you saying?” Vincent asked tiredly.

“I’m saying that your mental illness _isn’t_ hereditary. You can’t pass it on. So if there is anything…off about that child, it has nothing to do with you. Vincent… There’s something you need to know. That thing we found in the Crater isn’t a Cetra. It’s a _monster_ , and if Hojo injected that child with it’s DNA—“

“He is my _son_ ,” Vincent growled, eyes narrowing. “And you have a debt here, one I expect you to repay. It is your duty to help in any way that you can.”

“I hadn’t planned on staying here for more than the day—“

“I will not allow you to walk away from your responsibility here—

“You don’t have to threaten me, Vincent,” Gast interrupted wearily, recognizing that undertone in Vincent’s voice for what it was. “I’ll do what I know is right. I have a wife and a daughter now, though. I can’t expect them to permanently live in a hotel room. It might take me a few days to find something to rent, that’s all.”

“We have more than enough room here,” Vincent pointed out.

“I’ll talk to Ifalna about it,” Gast replied. “Thank you for the offer.”

“…That thing from the Crater,” Vincent began after a moment. _A grotesque specimen in a tank, feminine in form, organs splayed out around her body, left eye glowing unnaturally red, right eye a gaping socket…_ He’d seen it before, visiting the reactor. “You called it a monster. What is it?”

“My wife should tell you,” Gast said cautiously after a while. “She knows… more about this than I do. She’s the real thing, Vincent. A real Cetra.”

“And if that thing in the reactor isn’t, what does she have to do with this?”

“Please just let her explain,” Gast pleaded. “I know that you want answers, and I swear on my life that you’ll get them, but they’ll be better from her. Story-telling has never been a talent of mine.”

“No matter what you decide about staying here, you’ll come over for dinner tomorrow,” Vincent stated, a demand rather than a question. “She can tell me then.”

Gast nodded, knowing Vincent wouldn’t budge on this. They sipped coffee for a while longer, Vincent refilling both of their cups in silence when they got low. They both seemed uncertain about what to say next.

“That man in the photograph with you,” Gast began after a bit, no longer able to stand the silence. “He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.”

“Veld was my partner was I was a Turk,” Vincent explained. “You probably met him in passing. Speaking of…” A key rattled in the front door, and it creaked open. “I’ll go let him know we have company so he doesn’t mistakenly shoot you,” Vincent said calmly.

“We brought home dessert,” Sephiroth said as he slipped through the front door and kicked his snowy shoes off at the door. The boy had been withdrawn since the incident almost a week ago on Veld’s birthday, but he seemed in good spirits right now.

“Dinner too,” Veld added with mild amusement. “Not that it matters at much as the cheesecake, apparently.” Veld set the bags he was carrying down on the bench by the door before stepping forward to wrap Vincent in a hug and giving him a light kiss on the lips.

“We have company,” Vincent informed him.

“Who?” Veld asked in confusion, stepping away from Vincent. He glanced down the hall, where Gast had emerged from the kitchen and was standing awkwardly, still holding his coffee mug. The man offered Veld a cautious wave.

“I don’t know that you remember Gast, but he was a friend of my father’s,” Vincent explained. “He came to visit the grave. I invited him in for coffee. I think he may have the answers you were looking for, but we can talk more about that later. Gast, Veld and Sephiroth,” Vincent introduced simply.

“Right,” Veld said uncomfortably, “I’ll just... be putting the groceries away, then.” He grabbed the bags back off the bench and made his way down the hall to the kitchen, giving Gast an uncertain little nod as he passed him.

“I’ll help,” Sephiroth muttered, vacating the hallway after Veld, leaving Vincent alone with Gast once more.

“I should head home for the evening,” Gast said after a brief, awkward silence. “Have that talk with Ifalna. I suspect you have some talking to do as well,” he observed. Vincent nodded, and the scientist made his way towards the door. He only seemed to realize when he got there that he was still holding his empty coffee mug, and he stared at it in a moment in confusion, as if unsure what to do with it, before Vincent held out a hand to take it. With a self-conscious laugh, Gast handed it over before tugging his shoes back on and reaching for his coat.

“It’s exactly what it looks like, by the way” Vincent informed Gast as the man slipped his coat on. “Veld and I. Not that it’s really anyone’s business, but you would have figured it out sooner or later. I thought I would spare you the confusion.”

“Oh,” Gast said, blinking a couple of times in vague surprise. “Right. It’s not any of my business, but… I’m glad you seem happy,” he said sincerely.

“Thank you, Gast,” Vincent murmured. “And…I’m glad to see you happy too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a bit more cannon divergence here, because at this point in the OG I'm pretty sure both Gast and Ifalna should be dead, but hey, it's fanfiction, right? I know this still wasn't a light chapter, but it almost felt that way after the last couple, huh? Sorry for the rough ride there. 
> 
> (Also, at some point I'm going to run out of songs to plagiarize for chapter titles and then we're really going to have a problem lol)


	8. Chaos From Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veld reflects. Gast's family arrives for dinner.

Veld was not okay. He was pretending to be, though, because Vincent and the kid _certainly_ weren’t, and _someone_ had to hold it together around here. He had hated himself, earlier today, because when he’d woken up he’d found himself almost grateful for the anniversary of Grimoire’s death, because at least it had taken Vincent’s mind off of _everything else_ for a day. And maybe tomorrow meant answers.

He wasn’t keen on hosting a dinner party, not after what had happened the last time they’d had company in the house, but he could get through it if they actually knew what they were dealing with at the end of the night. He gave a quiet sigh and reflexively went for a cigarette before remembering Vincent had asked him not to smoke in the bedroom. With another sigh, he popped a stick of gum in his mouth instead. He wasn’t going to put his feet on those cold-ass floors for a smoke; he didn’t need it that badly.

Besides, Vincent was actually asleep for once, and Veld knew the noise would wake him. Vincent had drifted off to slumber in the hazy afterglow of their love-making, and Veld let him rest. He needed it. For once, it was Veld struggling to get to sleep. He’d given up trying a while ago and sat up in bed, resigning himself to spending the night brooding in the dark.

Veld was not okay, because in the past year they’d spent in this manor, he had allowed himself to forget that he was a damned man. He’d spent the year drinking and laughing, baking cookies in the kitchen, watching Vincent and Sephiroth play piano. He’d woken up each day to a kiss good morning and breakfast made from scratch, ended each day cooking dinner with the man he loved before falling asleep intertwined in each other’s arms.

In the past two years, he felt like he’d gotten to fall in love with Vincent all over again, each one of them discovering all the ways they’d both changed over the years. He supposed, in a way, they _were_ falling in love all over again, because even though they’d never _stopped_ loving each other, they were both very different people than they had been the last time they met. It reminded him so much in so many ways of the early years of their partnership: learning one another’s boundaries, the things that made them sad or happy, all the little joys that came with getting to know each other more deeply. It almost felt like getting to relive those days in some ways. Only this time they did it _right_ —openly, without shame, without apology.

Veld was not okay, because for the first time in his life he had a family. A _real_ family. He’d always thought that the Turks had been that, and even though they were all fiercely loyal and had each other’s backs without question, now that Veld had experienced the genuine article, he understood that his fellowship with the Turks paled in comparison.

He honestly hadn’t expected to enjoy this. When he had imagined his and Vincent’s future together, back in their younger days, it certainly had never involved playing house in a mansion. That probably would have sounded like torture. If anyone had told him that their future would also involve _being a parent_ to a teenaged kid, he probably would have laughed and asked if they had some drugs to spare. If he had actually believed them, he probably would have offed himself rather than wind up trapped in _that_ living nightmare. If anyone had told him that he would _enjoy_ it…

But, no. He didn’t just enjoy it. He _adored_ it. It made him happy in a way he had never dared to imagine. And that was the crux of it—of Veld’s entire life until that point, really. _He had never dared to imagine_. He had realized, after a while, that it wasn’t that a part of him hadn’t _always_ wanted this; it simply wasn’t something he thought he could have, so he’d never allowed himself to entertain the idea.

He had still panicked, though, in the beginning.

_They were all still on the road—the first time, when they were leaving Kalm for Wutai, not that second long, miserable stretch that went on for months and months. It had only been a few days, but they were all sick of it already. Three people who enjoyed their privacy were not meant to share tiny hotel rooms furnished with two twin beds, so when they had finally arrived in Costa del Sol, they splurged on two separate rooms. They had all hoped to go for a walk along the seaside that evening, but the thunderstorm that rolled in abruptly and raged through the night foiled those plans. Still, Vincent and Veld took advantage of the noise…_

_“Do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to sleep spooning you in a twin bed every night with a kid three feet away?” Veld rumbled in Vincent’s ear in the afterglow._

_“Yes, Vel, I’m painfully aware of exactly how_ hard _it is,” Vincent purred, turning over a bit so he could flash Veld a wicked, teasing smirk. “Do you think it’s any easier for me? I’m twenty-seven, remember? Do you recall how horny you were all the time at twenty-seven?”_

 _Veld laughed helplessly at that, not entirely sure how to respond, both because Vincent didn’t usually talk this way, even in bed, and because gods,_ he was still twenty-seven, wasn’t he? _and_ he always would be _and if Veld didn’t laugh at that he might cry._

_“Gaia, we need to find a place to settle down soon,” Veld sighed after his laughter had abated, sitting up in bed to light a cigarette._

_“Give me one of those,” Vincent prompted, gesturing towards the pack, and Veld arched an eyebrow._

_“Really?” To Veld’s knowledge, his partner hadn’t smoked since he’d found him at the manor, and he recalled Vincent complaining about the taste._

_“Mmm,” Vincent confirmed, settling against his chest. “They taste…too harsh now, but I think I’m just the right mixture of tipsy and thoroughly fucked to enjoy one.”_

_Veld laughed again at that, lighting up another cigarette and passing it over to Vincent, who took it with a little noise Veld knew to interpret as thanks. The younger man took a long drag of it, eyes closed, and let it out in a pleased sigh._

_“Patience, Veld,” Vincent bade after a moment, switching back to the topic at hand. “We’ll find something more comfortable, more permanent, once we get to Wutai,” he reminded him. “It’s only a few days.”_

_“I know,” Veld relented. “But it’s not a virtue I’ve learned in the time you’ve been gone, you know—patience.”_

_“I’d noticed,” Vincent chuckled._

_“And I’m definitely_ not _going to wait for freak thunderstorms to sleep with you when we_ do _have a place, so we better figure out something about that kid’s fucking hearing.”_

_“We can put on a record. It really isn’t rocket science,” sighed Vincent. Silence fell for a while. “You’re worried about him living with us,” Vincent observed after a while. It was only a hunch, but Veld’s reaction told him what he needed to know. “Are you having second thoughts about this?”_

_“No!” Veld protested immediately, but he knew Vincent wouldn’t take that for an answer. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. “I’m just…scared, okay?” Veld confessed after a little while. He felt Vincent stiffen a little beside him._

_“Scared of what?” Vincent asked flatly, and_ oh _, the older Turk realized, Vince thought Veld was talking about the_ kid _. And Veld supposed he was, but not like_ that _. He wasn’t remotely afraid of_ Sephiroth. _He let out a long sigh._

 _“Look, I’m just afraid of fucking up, alright? I mean, Shiva’s tits, Vince, at least you_ had _parents. All I ever got was a blueprint on what_ not _to do. I don’t… I don’t have a clue what I’m doing here,” he admitted. “Gaia, when I was the kid’s age my role models were fucking_ hitmen _, and before that, I just_ didn’t have any _. My parents were angry drunks. My ma slept with strangers when the old man wasn't home, and my old man knocked us around. I don’t…” Veld trailed off, let off his breath in a resigned huff, and cast Vincent a helpless glance before turning his eyes away._

 _“Oh, Verdot,” Vincent said sadly, and he was the only man in all the worlds who could speak to Veld in that voice, with pity in his tone, and not fear for his life. Veld just held him closer instead, because he knew that Vincent_ meant _it, that this man would bring the stars down to Gaia for him if he thought it might take away the pain of what he’d lived through._

_“…I don’t think the kid likes me.” Veld admitted his second fear after a moment, and Vincent chuckled at that one a little, gently._

_“I don’t think he has any idea what to_ think _of you,” Vincent corrected. “His only interactions with other people have been through the medium of Shinra’s labs and a boarding school. His entire life has been about propriety.” Vincent let out a noise that Veld could only describe as a_ snicker _. “Veld, you’re loud, you swear like an airship captain, and you’re unbelievably crass sometimes. Also, I don’t think that he can tell that when we’re teasing each other it isn’t actually arguing. He’ll figure it out,” Vincent soothed. “And so will you. You’re a good man, Vel. You don’t need to model yourself after anybody else to be a good parent. Just be you.”_

It hadn’t taken the kid as long to warm up to him as he had expected it to. _They had been staying in the cabin in Wutai for about three months, and winter had finally set in. The snow was heavy outside, and they hadn’t gone anywhere in longer than a fortnight. Vincent was going stir-crazy_

_“It isn’t me,” Vincent had protested lowly as he stood on the front porch of their cabin with Veld as the older man smoked a cigarette. “It’s Galian. He likes roaming, and he’s getting restless. I think I need to get away for a few days, take him for a walk.”_

_It wasn’t the first time and Veld and Sephiroth had been alone together, exactly, but it was the first time they’d been alone together for an extended period of time, and Veld hadn’t been sure how it would go. The first night, they had cooked dinner together in awkward silence, which no one had broken as they ate and cleaned up before settling down in the living room. They had their own bedrooms, but much like Veld’s old apartment back in Midgar, the rest of the living spaces were all in one big room. And much like the manor they all lived in now, the cabin had been a pain in the ass to heat, so they’d only bothered lighting fires in the main room during the day. Sephiroth was reading a book, and Veld was working his way through both a bottle of whiskey and a book of crossword puzzles he’d picked up in town._

_“What is a four-letter synonym for ‘silent?’” Veld mused absently aloud._

_“Mute,” Sephiroth responded over his book, automatically._

_“Ah, so I see that you_ aren’t _that,” Veld observed with teasing sarcasm. Sephiroth glanced up at that, realizing that he’d stumbled into a trap. He narrowed his eyes a little, though Veld thought he could see the hint of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Look, kid, I get that you inherited Vincent’s penchant for long periods of brooding silence, and I get that I might not be your favorite person in the world, but if I have to spend the next two days in this tiny cabin literally not talking I might lose whatever sanity I have left.”_

_Sephiroth blinked at him a couple of times. “You’re kind of an asshole, you know?” the boy said nonchalantly, like he was making an observation about the weather. Sephiroth smiled then, a real one that showed his teeth. “I think I like you, though,” he had admitted._

_“You’re not so bad yourself, kid,” Veld said with a warm, genuine smile._

Veld was not okay, because he hadn’t expected to love the kid so damned much. He also hadn’t realized, even before this, how often loving a child meant being hurt by them, then comforting them when _they_ felt hurt by what they’d done. The worst time, up until his birthday at least, had probably been the first and only time the youth had ever said he hated him, because in that moment of anger the boy had subconsciously confirmed all his deepest fears about being a terrible parent. Even when it was happening, though, Veld knew Sephiroth hadn’t meant it. The pain in the boy’s eyes when he realized what had come out of his mouth had been profound and immediate. Still, the kid’s words had hurt.

They hadn’t, however, hurt as much as being choked by his adopted child while Sephiroth stared down at him, eyes slit-pupiled, as if he didn’t recognize him. He had no intention of telling Vincent about the nightmares. He also had no intention of telling Vincent that he was dreading whatever answers they might get tomorrow as much as he was looking forward to them.

Veld was not okay, because, for the first time in his life, he had _so many things_ he was terrified to lose. Still, he’d started to allow himself to feel _safe_ , and he had begun to trust in their ability to all keep themselves that way. He just didn’t realize the threat to everything they had built here was destined to come from within the whole time. 

It wasn’t very late the next evening when the residents of the Valentine manor were alerted to the sound of a car puttering its way up the driveway towards the house, but it was already almost dark outside, the sun dipping low on the horizon as the sunset—spectacular in that way sunsets could only be in winter—gradually faded to gloom. They had only recently finished setting up for dinner and counted it good timing.

“I’ll be upstairs,” Sephiroth said simply. Vincent sighed, but neither he nor Veld bothered to argue with the boy as he collected his dinner and retreated to his room. They’d both already lost that quarrel earlier that day when the teenager had made it abundantly clear that he would spend the duration of the dinner party upstairs and absolutely nothing either of them said or did could make him budge on that.

“If you decide you want to come down—“ Vincent began, but Sephiroth just cut over him.

“I won’t,” he called back from halfway up the stairs. Vincent sighed again.

“Give it time, Vince,” Veld murmured after the boy’s door had closed. “He’s gonna be shaky for a while. It’s a lot to ask him to be around strangers right now.”

“I know,” Vincent sighed. “Just go ahead into the dining room and double-check everything. No need for both of us to freeze welcoming them in.”

Vincent met Gast’s little family at the bottom of the front stairs, offering up a small smile. The woman at his side—Ifalna, he presumed—was pretty and brunette with piercing green eyes. A girl of about seven or eight was clinging to her skirt, her mother but in miniature, bundled in a pink puffer jacket so patently ridiculous she could barely put her arms down.

“Gast,” Vincent greeted warmly, reaching out to clasp the man’s hand. Gast pretended not to notice how cold Vincent’s was. “Before anything,” Vincent began quietly, “I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I was…harsh. You’re a good man, Gast. You always have been, and I’m sorry for putting my misplaced guilt on you.”

Gast sighed. “It wasn’t your fault either, Vincent,” he said, resigned because he knew him well enough to know Vincent would never hear him.

“Come inside,” Vincent bade. “We can do introductions there, where it isn’t so cold.”

He turned and began to lead them all inside, but Ifalna only made it to the porch landing before freezing in place as if someone had stunned her, letting out a quiet gasp.

“What have you brought here?” she breathed, her tone somewhere between awe and pure, unbridled terror.

“Ifalna?” Gast asked with quiet concern.

“You didn’t tell me,” she accused her husband. “I will not enter that house with that… _thing_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like we needed to hear Veld's perspective here, but I had to at least introduce everybody (especially teeny Aerith), even if it didn't exactly go so well for the parties involved.


	9. Like Fire from the Heavens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gast and Ifalna give their answers, and run into some unexpected trouble.

Veld had somehow found himself alone in the dining room with a very small girl in a very large pink coat. The child had promptly flashed him a brilliant smile, extended her hand for him to shake, introduced herself as Aerith, and informed him that Vincent had told her to wait inside while he talked to her parents.

_Gaia_ , Veld thought to himself at that, resigned, _what’s happened now?_

“I’m Veld,” he told her, straightening from where he’d bent down slightly to shake her hand. She was a little thing, but her grip was surprisingly firm. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too!” she chirped back with absolute sincerity, her grin somehow spreading even more. It faded after a second, though, her face scrunching up in displeasure so suddenly and expressively Veld almost laughed. “Can you help me out of this coat? I can’t move my arms.”

Veld _did_ laugh then. He couldn’t help it, but he also knelt down immediately to help free her from her puffer jacket. Beneath it, she was wearing a lacy white dress and a pink knit cardigan. And combat boots, Veld noted absently with mild amusement. Incredibly scuffed and well-loved ones that were currently getting snow all over the rug. He didn't bother complaining about it; it would dry.

“Do you want some hot chocolate?” Veld asked after hanging her coat up for her. Something told him that this might be a while.

“Sure!” she’d agreed eagerly. She had insisted on following him into the kitchen and helping him make their hot chocolate. “Oh,” she observed when she realized that Veld was wearing house shoes, glancing down at her own boots, which were now melting snow on the kitchen floor. “I guess I should have taken off my shoes.”

“It’s okay, kid,” Veld chuckled lightly. “You couldn’t even move your arms in that coat. You can just take your hot chocolate over to the breakfast nook and kick them off there. I’ll find you a pair of slippers.”

She’d made her way to the small table in the kitchen and hopped up in one of the chairs, obediently kicking off her shoes. Veld collected them, bidding her once again to wait there, before making his way towards the front door. Veld deposited her boots near the door, wavering for a moment with indecision. A very large part of him wanted to go see what in the hell was taking everyone so long, but he had no idea what he would be walking out into, and he didn’t want to leave the kid alone for long.

“Motherfucker,” he said tiredly with a resigned sigh, grabbing his coat off its peg by the door and slipping out into the cold.

It looked like he had walked out to the aftermath of an argument. Vincent and a brunette woman who looked like an older and angrier version of the girl inside were glaring at one another coldly while Gast looked on helplessly. The scientist had still been trying to mediate or soothe whatever altercation Veld had missed when he exited the house, though Gast fell silent when he heard the front door open.

“Aerith?” the man asked immediately.

“Settled at the kitchen table with a cup of hot chocolate,” Veld assured him. “Cute kid, by the way. Anyone want to tell me what the fuck’s going on out here?”

Both Vincent and the woman took a breath, as if to respond, but Gast spoke again before either of them could get the words out.

“I think there’s just been a bit of a misunderstanding here, that’s all,” the scientist reassured Veld.

“She called Sephiroth a _thing_ ,” Vincent said, his voice quiet and toneless in a way that let Veld know he was battling back his temper. Veld closed his eyes and took a deep breath, counted slowly to ten before he dared to open them again. Veld still hadn’t quite mastered patience, but two years of sharing a house with a teenager _had_ at least taught him to control his temper.

“You want to explain that statement real quick, darling?” Veld asked tersely. The woman’s eyes slipped closed, and her shoulders relaxed. She seemed to be…concentrating on something, as if she was listening for a faint noise on the wind. After a moment, her eyebrows knitted together just a little bit in confusion.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed sincerely after a while, looking up at both of them with regret in her brilliant emerald eyes. “I thought that I sensed…” She trailed off then and turned to her husband. “The thing you took out of the crater. You brought me here to talk about it. Tell me it’s somewhere secure.”

“Shinra would never allow it to leave their clutches,” Gast soothed. “Ifalna…what is this all about?”

“For a moment, when we got here, I thought that I sensed… _it_ ,” she explained in a whisper. “But…I don’t anymore. I’m sorry,” she said again sincerely. “I didn’t mean to offend you, and I… I hope you can forgive my blunder.”

“Wait,” Gast said after a beat when his wife had finished. “You sensed that thing we dug out of the ice _here_?”

“I…thought I did, but…I must just be paranoid,” Ifalna confessed, seeming mildly embarrassed now. “I am not over fond of telling this story. I’m afraid I might be a bit…scattered.”

Gast gave a long, sad sigh. “We have a lot to talk about,” he confessed. “But…we really should do it inside. That is, of course, if you’ll still have us.”

“It really was a misunderstanding,” Ifalna pleaded.

“Of course,” Vincent said, calming now. “I apologize for being so…defensive. We’ve all been through a lot lately.”

“Let’s get out of the cold,” Veld prodded, eager to stop dragging out the niceties. "I'm rather attached to all of my toes, and I hadn't planned on losing one today." He was still in his house slippers, and his feet were already stinging with the cold. 

“I thought you got lost,” Aerith informed Veld when he made his way back into the kitchen to give her the slippers he’d promised. “But then I decided that was silly, because you couldn’t have possibly gotten lost in your _own_ house, even if it _is_ really big.”

“Sorry, kid,” he said sincerely. “I got a little sidetracked. It’s time for dinner now, though. How do you feel about chili?”

Aerith liked chili just fine, it turned out. As Veld had expected, everyone appreciated something warm and hardy in the cold. They ate it with cheese toasted on homemade sourdough bread, and the adults passed around a bottle of brandy, each of them pouring themselves a small cup and letting its warmth settle in their bones. Throughout the meal, everyone was grateful for Aerith’s presence at the table, letting her joyful chatter push away a little bit of the tension. She carried the conversation for the most part, at least until Veld left the room mid-meal to grab more wood for the fire and came back with a report on the weather.

“The snow’s really coming down out there,” he informed everyone at the table. “Roads are going to get pretty bad soon, if they aren’t already. I take it that car is a rental?” Gast nodded in reply to that. “It have snow chains?”

“…I don’t think so,” Gast admitted. 

“Let me know who in town gave you a fu—” Veld managed to cut off the swear, eyes darting briefly to Aerith, “—a car without chains this time of the year before you leave, but in the meantime, I think you might all be stuck here, for the night at least.”

“Ooo, a sleepover?” Aerith asked excitedly. Gast sighed, rising from his chair in order to pull the drapes back and glance out the window. The world outside was chaos in white, snow coming down in heavy, violent sheets.

“It looks that way, sweetheart,” the scientist admitted.

“I’ve always wanted to go to a sleepover,” Aerith informed everyone and no one in particular. “Can I go explore? I’m done with my dinner.” Gast and Ifalna glanced towards the two men for permission.

“Long as it’s alright with your folks,” Veld told her.

“Just be careful and don’t make a mess, honey,” Ifalna bade. The girl hopped down from her chair eagerly and disappeared out of the dining-room door.

“It’s…probably about time we all have that talk anyway,” Gast admitted hesitantly after his daughter had left the room.

“Let’s move into the parlor,” Vincent suggested. It was the only room where he could be relatively sure that Sephiroth couldn't overhear them. 

“I’ll grab some drinks,” Veld informed everyone else. “Any requests?”

A few moments later, they were all settled down on sofas in the parlor, the three men nursing drinks while Ifalna sipped tea.

“Before I say anything,” Ifalna began at last, speaking to her husband, “I want to know what is going on here. When you told me an old co-worker from Shinra wanted to know about The Calamity, I assumed they were asking for academic purposes, and you simply wanted to do a favor for an old colleague, but…that isn’t what is happening here, is it?”

“…No,” Gast admitted after a while. “I told you about the Jenova Project, how the scientists I was working with were performing human experimentation behind my back. I wasn’t lying to you, Ifalna, when I told you the child died. I thought it _had_ , but…”

“He’s my _son_ ,” Vincent informed Ifalna firmly when Gast trailed off, wanting the woman to have absolutely no doubt about where he stood on the matter. "And he is a teenaged boy, not a monster."

“…I’m so sorry,” she murmured sincerely, pity in her eyes. “Did…something happen?”

“We just need answers,” Veld explained, dodging the question. “Please.”

“It came from the skies,” she began after a long while in a whisper. “You would probably call it an alien. My people called it The Calamity.”

_The Calamity._

Another voice seemed to echo those words in Vincent’s head in unison with Ifalna, a voice he hadn’t heard outside of his dreams in fifteen years—Lucrecia’s voice. Suddenly, his mind flashed back to his nightmares, and he wondered how he’d never thought to question where they’d come from before that moment. They hadn't been _his_ nightmares, _his_ memories. He had thought they were nothing--just disjointed, disturbing images--until now. Had the dreams been a warning, somehow?

“When it fell, it made what you know today as the Northern Crater. At the time, my people were living nearby and went to investigate. Those who went into the Crater came back, but they returned…wrong. Sick. It was as if something had possessed them. That… _thing_ that landed in the Crater destroyed my people’s society single-handedly. We tried to kill it, but it doesn’t die, so at last, we trapped it under the ice…” She trailed off there, because they all knew the story from that point on, all knew how Gast and his team had discovered the thing and dragged it from its imprisonment.

“What _is_ it?” Veld asked after a brief moment.

“I think it’s some sort of parasite,” Gast told him. “Without access to the specimen, my ability to test my theories has been…well, next to non-existent. Still, based on my own observations and Ifalna’s recounting of the events, I’ve formed a few strong suspicions. It seems to be able to mimic it’s hosts DNA while simultaneously altering it in order to better suit its needs. The host becomes faster, stronger, more violent. And it seems to be able to… _communicate_ with the hosts it spreads to and control them, at least to some extent.”

“…And what exactly does that mean for Sephiroth?” Vincent asked, his voice quiet and toneless. Gast gave a long, sad sigh.

 _I’m so sorry…_ Lucrecia’s voice again, clear as if she were whispering the words into Vincent’s ear.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Vincent,” Gast admitted. “There’s no precedent for what Hojo did. I don’t know what it means for him.”

“I _did_ sense it,” Ifalna realized in a small voice. “When we first got here.”

Before anyone could respond to that, the power flickered, blinked off, and died, plunging the old manor into darkness.


	10. With the Lights Out It's Never Less Dangerous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aerith gets lost in the blackout. Sephiroth intervenes.

Downstairs, the noise of chatter and clinking of utensils had faded into silence. They had all moved to the parlor, then, Sephiroth reasoned. For a moment, he paused, glancing up from the book he was reading before closing his eyes and listening carefully. Nothing. No voices, at least, though he could hear footsteps down the hallway. Small ones. The girl he’d heard talking earlier was off exploring, then.

His eyes opened, flickered to the door of his room. _Locked_ , he confirmed. Good. Deciding not to worry anymore about what the rest of the inhabitants of the house were doing, he rose and put on a record before settling back onto his bed with his hardback.

Outside, the wind was growing fierce, and snow swirled in a violent fury of white. The storm was quickly turning into something he could only describe as a blizzard. He wondered absently if everyone downstairs had realized it yet, but he had been sincere about not going back down while they had company. Not after everything that had happened last time. He didn’t think he would ever trust himself again, the same way he didn’t think he would ever be able to forget the looks on Vincent and Veld’s faces after. Before Sephiroth could completely lose himself in his guilt, the power went off, and a short, shrill squeak of terror pierced the darkness.

Sephiroth waited for a beat to see if the power would come back on before rising with a sigh. He was sure no one else had heard her, and he couldn’t in good conscious leave a little girl lost in the dark.

In the hallways of the manor, the blackness was almost total, the moonlight that usually filtered into the corridors blocked out entirely by the snow. It left his surroundings strange and colorless, though his eyes had no trouble piercing the gloom. Still, it took him a few moments to find the girl. After her initial surprised cry, she’d gone still and silent. He finally found her hiding in the attic, sitting on the floor beside an old traveling trunk, a head topped with an overlarge bow resting on knobby knees as she hugged them to her chest. 

“ _Aerith_!” The call floated up from downstairs every few seconds now, but Sephiroth doubted the girl could hear the voices from so far away over the sounds of the storm.

“Are you Aerith?” Sephiroth asked the girl softly. She jolted a little at the sound of his voice, looking around for the source of it uselessly in the dark. After a moment, she gave an automatic nod, not seeming to realize that if she couldn’t see, he shouldn’t have been able to either. He could, though, so he didn’t point out the error.

“Hi, Aerith,” he greeted gently, stepping closer to the girl and crouching down in front of her. “I’m Sephiroth. I think your parents are looking for you, and it looks like the power might be out for a while. Do you want me to help you get back downstairs?” Another little nod from the girl. “Okay. I’m going to take your hand then, alright?”

“Okay,” she confirmed easily and without hesitation, seeming to shake the last remnants of her fear now that she had help. She presented her little hand to the open air with the confidence of someone who had never been bitten by the dark. He took it gently into his and helped the girl to her feet, leading her to the attic stairs. She hesitated when she got to the staircase, though, wary of making her way down them when she couldn’t see.

“…Could you give me a piggyback ride?” Aerith asked Sephiroth when he paused, sensing her hesitation.

“A what?” Sephiroth questioned, arching an eyebrow at her in the dark. Her face scrunched up sourly, as if she thought he was teasing her.

“Can I _ride_ on your _back_?” she clarified with exasperation, stressing her syllables sarcastically, talking to him as if _he_ were the little kid instead of the other way around.

“Oh. Uh, sure,” he agreed in surprise, crouching down again and helping the girl climb onto him, skinny arms and legs wrapped tight around his neck and waist. “Hold on, okay?” he warned anyway as he started down the stairs.

“ _Aerith_!”

“Mommy!” the girl cried happily this time at the sound of the voice, which was evidently in range of her hearing now. She wriggled a little in his grasp but kept her hold firm.

A woman carrying a candelabra intercepted them when they reached the first floor, and Sephiroth knelt down and gently untangled himself from the girl so he could set her back on her feet. When she was firmly on the ground again, Aerith sprinted towards the woman, who knelt down to take the girl into her embrace with a relieved sigh before rising and turning her eyes to regard Sephiroth. Ifalna wasn’t sure exactly what she had expected the heir of The Calamity to look like, but she _certainly_ wasn’t expecting this teenage boy in an oversized knit sweater, flannel thermal pants, and fuzzy slippers, hair shoved into a messy bun on top of his head. He was tall like his father, but hadn’t grown into his height enough for it to be intimidating.

“This is Sephiroth,” Aerith announced to her mother, leaving Ifalna’s embrace in order to collect Sephiroth’s hand in her own once more and drag him closer to the woman. “He gave me a piggyback ride down from the attic. I got stuck up there when the power went out.”

“…Thank you,” Ifalna murmured thoughtfully to the boy in a melodic, accented voice.

“You’re welcome,” Sephiroth replied automatically, adverting his eyes from her scrutinizing stare. The little girl was still holding his hand.

“I should—” Sephiroth began, trying to excuse himself and retreat back to his room, but Veld emerged from the parlor before he could get any further, calling out his name.

“Sephiroth,” the man said brightly. “I’m glad you decided to come down. Oh, and you found the girl. Good. Vincent went looking, but I think Gast is starting to get worried.” Veld turned to address Ifalna then. “Fire’s going good again in the parlor. You ladies can just wait in there while we drag out some candles, alright?”

“They’re stuck here, aren’t they?” Sephiroth asked Veld after the girls had both retreated back into the warmth of the parlor and closed the heavy doors, moving forward towards the man to join him in the small circle of candlelight cast by the votive he carried.

“Until tomorrow, at least,” Veld admitted. “Maybe longer, if the snow doesn’t let up soon.” Sephiroth gave a long sigh.

“It doesn’t seem like it plans to,” Vincent observed, slipping out of the kitchen to join in on the conversation. Veld jumped a little at his voice in the dark. “The firewood is getting a bit low in the mudroom, too, and I’m worried that by morning, we won’t be able to get to the rack outside for a few days.”

“Well, you definitely aren’t going out there _now_ either,” Veld said firmly. “There’s a fucking _blizzard_ out there right now, if you hadn’t noticed.” Vincent sighed.

“We should all sleep down here tonight, then,” Vincent suggested wearily, obviously not thrilled with the idea. “It’s a waste to keep fires going in three separate rooms.” Vincent glanced at Sephiroth then, sighed once more. “Seph, I don’t want to push you, but it looks like they aren’t going anywhere anytime soon, and you can’t just refuse to leave your room for days, especially with the wood running low.”

“It isn’t that cold without a fire,” Sephiroth insisted, somehow managing to keep the panic he could feel constricting his heart from his tone.

“Sephiroth.” Vincent’s voice was gentle but firm. _You know you’re being unreasonable,_ Vincent’s eyes seemed to say when Sephiroth met them. _You know you sound like a child_. Sephiroth glanced away. Vincent shot Veld a meaningful, apologetic look, and the older man sighed inaudibly.

“I’m just going to go grab those candles,” he announced, vacating the hallway in order to give Vincent a moment alone with the boy.

It made Veld feel a bit disappointed sometimes, that Sephiroth always went to Vincent with his problems instead of him, but he recognized why. There were things the two of them had lived through that he would never be able to comprehend, and they _understood_ each other in a way that could be uncanny sometimes. Veld knew Vincent better than anyone else in the world, but there were _still_ times the kid knew what was upsetting his partner and what to say to Vincent to help cheer him better than he did himself. And besides that, Vincent was good at being vulnerable in some strange, particular way that encouraged others to do the same. He'd always been like that. Veld lit up a cigarette in the mudroom before he bothered looking for candles, trying to take his time.

“I know you’re afraid,” Vincent informed Sephiroth quietly when they were alone. “And I know how hard it can be to trust yourself again, after…after that.” _Vincent remembered blood on a white tiled floor, a little girl screaming, and he could taste it on his tongue—the blood— warm and metallic and it tasted_ good _. Galian’s roar and Hojo’s laughter and the sight of his reflection in the one-way glass, scarlet blood dripping from wine-dark fur, acid-yellow eyes staring back at him…_

“Vincent?” Sephiroth whispered, reaching out to touch the man’s arm. Vincent twitched, just a little, and the boy knew he’d startled him out of something bad. Vincent sighed and glanced back at him, pain written on his face for just an instant.

“I’ve hurt people I didn’t mean to hurt too,” Vincent admitted. “And just like you, I tried to run from it…and myself. The world, really, because I decided that I was a monster, and that I would never be able to trust myself again.”

“…What made you change your mind?”

“Veld convinced me I was being an idiot,” Vincent said with a fond, sad smile. “…And I knew I would never be able to forgive myself for what I did, but I also realized that I had hidden from my sins and called it atonement, when in reality it was just cowardice. I was afraid of failing again, so I decided not to try. The thing is, that’s just failing before you’ve even started. All of the things I feared most—hurting people, not being able to save you, not being able to stop Hojo…those fears were all still realized. All I did was take away any chance to stop them from coming true. Running…doesn’t fix anything.”

Sephiroth said nothing, his eyes focused on the floor, and Vincent gave a little sigh, stepping forward to rest his hand on the teenager’s shoulder.

“You aren’t a monster, Sephiroth,” Vincent assured, “and you don’t have anything to be afraid of. Even if something _did_ happen, I’ll be right there. Okay?”

No, a little voice in Sephiroth’s head screamed. No, it wasn’t okay, because nothing would ever be okay again, because no matter what Vincent said, _he had tried to kill Veld._

“Okay,” Sephiroth said instead, following Vincent back into the parlor.

It hadn’t taken Aerith long to grow restless. She had been excited when Sephiroth joined them, but after their initial introductions, the boy had retreated to an armchair away from the rest of them and buried his nose in a book. She had contented herself for a little while with recounting the adventure she’d had while exploring the manor to her parents, but eventually the story was over and she began searching for another way to entertain herself. She found herself gravitating towards Sephiroth—the only other person in the room who wasn’t _quite_ an adult yet. 

“What are you reading?” she asked as she perched on the arm of the sofa nearest to Sephiroth’s armchair.

“It’s an old book of poetry,” Sephiroth told the girl.

“Does it have any pictures in it?”

“No.” Aerith scrunched her face up a little at the reply.

“What’s the point of a book without pictures?”

“The pictures are in the words,” he tried to explain. She hopped off the arm of the couch and came closer to Sephiroth, peeking over his shoulder at his book. Lines and lines of text marched across the pages, broken up into strange, short little paragraphs. She cocked her head a little in confusion.

“I don’t see any pictures there,” she told him matter-of-factly. Sephiroth made a noise under his breath that might have been a laugh.

“No, not like that,” he clarified. “The words are very descriptive, so when you read them, you can see a picture of what it’s talking about in your head.”

“Like…imagining?” she asked, and Sephiroth nodded. “Oh, I’m _really_ good at imagining,” she boasted, and the teenager couldn’t help but smile a little.

“Okay. Then close your eyes, and I’m going to read to you. Just try to imagine what I’m describing in your head, alright?” Sephiroth asked. The girl squeezed her eyes closed tight and gave a little nod. He flipped through the book for a moment before finding one he thought she might like, reading it to her quietly in his low, melodic voice. 

_"The grass so little has to do, —_

_A sphere of simple green,_

_With only butterflies to brood,_

_And bees to entertain,_

_And stir all day to pretty tunes_

_The breezes fetch along,_

_And hold the sunshine in its lap_

_And bow to everything;_

_And thread the dews all night, like pearls,_

_And make itself so fine, —_

_A duchess were too common_

_For such a noticing._

_And even when it dies, to pass_

_In odors so divine,_

_As lowly spices gone to sleep,_

_Or amulets of pine._

_And then to dwell in sovereign barns,_

_And dream the days away, —_

_The grass so little has to do,_

_I wish I were the hay!"_

“Do you see what I meant?” Sephiroth asked her a moment after he finished reading. "About the pictures being in the words?" The girl bobbed her head in confirmation. 

"It made me feel...warm," she stated after a moment. "Like laying around on a sunny spring day."

"Can you picture it in your imagination?"

“I can,” she said with excitement. “I really liked it. Would you read me another?”

“Of course,” Sephiroth had agreed. He tensed a little in surprise when the girl wedged herself into the small amount of empty space left beside him in his armchair, cuddling up close to him so she could look at the book. After a moment, though, he relaxed and found another poem. They sat like that for quite a while, Aerith content to let Sephiroth read to her, but eventually sitting still for so long became too much for the girl.

“Do you want me to keep reading?” Sephiroth asked after a moment, seeming to sense her attention drifting. She shook her head a little.

“I think I’m done for now. Could we play hide-and-seek?” she asked eagerly.

“Play what?” Sephiroth asked, the same feeling of confusion washing over him as before, when she had asked for the piggyback ride. She blinked at him a few times with wide green eyes, disbelieving.

“ _Hide_ -and- _seek_?” she echoed. “You don’t know how to play?” Sephiroth just shook his head. “Oh my gosh, it’s right there in the name. One of us hides, and the other one has to stay here, and close their eyes, and count to a hundred, and then they have to find the person who’s hiding.”

“Oh.”

“Weren’t you _ever_ a kid?” Aerith asked dubiously.

_Had he been?_ He pondered the question absently for a while. He had been younger once, of course, but he had never been anything like this girl. He’d never quite understood other children, even when he’d been one. He wondered if he shared any experiences with this girl at all, if there were a single piece of her life he could relate to. At her age, Sephiroth had alternated spending his time at boarding school and the Shinra training grounds. He hadn’t played _games_. But Sephiroth _had_ met his first friend when he was about her age, he realized.

_Sephiroth was sitting at one of the picnic tables on the side of the playground, trying to ignore the sounds of the other children playing as he read his book. It was the beginning of the new school year, which always worried him, because it meant a new teacher, and new teachers usually tried to push him to play with the other kids, insisted he shouldn’t be alone. Sometimes they told him he needed to play to get his exercise. But Sephiroth_ liked _being alone, and he got plenty of exercise training for Hojo. He just didn’t want to be bothered. Thankfully, his new teacher hadn’t pushed the matter. She had asked him, gently, on the first day, whether or not he wanted to go play, and when he’d explained that he would rather read, that had been the end of it. He had almost thought that he might be able to start the year off smoothly, for once._

_Sephiroth had been more irritated than he might have usually been, then, when he sensed someone approaching, but the new boy settled down at the picnic table next to Sephiroth’s instead of bothering him, so he went back to reading. After a few moments, though, he felt eyes on him and glanced up. The other boy looked away quickly. Sephiroth did not, keeping his gaze trained on the boy until he finally glanced back up at him, sheepishly. The boy was small and skinny, with curly black hair and dark skin dotted with a smattering of darker freckles. A large, round pair of spectacles balanced on his nose._

_“I’m sorry,” the new boy muttered, heat creeping into his cheeks. “I didn’t mean to bother you…” A beat of silence. “I’m Owen.” Owen tried for a little smile._

_“Sephiroth,” he had replied after a moment, glancing back down at his book. Owen had a book of his own, Sephiroth noticed. “Why aren’t you playing?” Sephiroth questioned. The boy shrugged his narrow shoulders._

_“It’s my first day. I don’t have any friends to play with,” he explained. “Besides, I’d rather read anyway.”_

_Sephiroth also didn’t have any friends to play with, though after a few days of recess, Owen moved over to his table to sit beside him, and Sephiroth didn’t complain. A week later, they were spending more of their playground time talking to one another than reading, and they were both strangely okay with that. It turned out that Owen didn’t play often because he was sick. “An autoimmune disorder,” the boy had explained to him early into their friendship, the words enunciated with the careful efficiency of someone who had practiced them many times. The disorder made him tire easily; some days were better, some days just walking to classes winded him._

_Hojo wouldn’t have approved of the friendship. Of_ any _friendship, Sephiroth was fairly sure, but especially one with someone like Owen, because the other boy was weak and sensitive. He cried easily and laughed easily, wore his emotions plainly on his face. Hojo was constantly reminding Sephiroth that he was superior to his peers, that he shouldn’t waste his time on them, but he wasn’t as afraid of disappointing Hojo as he had once been. Owen was smart and funny, and he treated Sephiroth as if he were any other kid. That was all that had mattered to him._

 _Everything had been wonderful until Midterms. For the first time, Sephiroth was almost enjoying school, enjoying himself, so when Owen begged him to come join the slumber party all of the boys in the large common dormitory were throwing before they all went home for Midwinter break, he had agreed to tag along. He had been_ invited _somewhere. Someone thought that he_ belonged _._

_He had slept sharing the top bunk Owen occupied, though it had taken him a very long time to drift off. Sephiroth had his own private room, and he wasn’t accustomed to the noise of shared living spaces. Every creak of a bedspring, every snore, every sleepy murmur, sent him into high alert, and the weight of Owen in the bed beside him felt strange. A while after the other boy had fallen asleep, he rolled over and threw one arm around Sephiroth, muttering a little, but not waking. Sephiroth stiffened, but didn’t want to wake the other boy, so he laid still and allowed Owen to keep his arm slung around him. It felt…nice, almost, Sephiroth admitted to himself after a while. He thought of the monkeys that Hojo had brought to the lab to use as test subjects, how they all slept together in a tangled pile of limbs. He understood why now. It felt…safe._

_But when Sephiroth had drifted off into his dreams that night, he’d found himself on a very different bed, held down by thick leather straps. A hospital bed, he realized, ice flooding his veins to replace the warmth that had lingered there a moment ago. The room was dark, lit only by the green glow of mako. It made the shadows deep. Looming. Beside him, a stainless steel table filled with medical tools stood ominously, taunting him with scalpels and needles and bone saws._

_Footsteps echoed through the darkness like a slow, pounding drumbeat, but Sephiroth’s head was strapped down too, so he couldn’t turn to look. He felt his breathing speed up a little bit, but tried not to panic, tried not to let it show on his face, because that would only make Hojo angry with him._

_Hojo had already looked angry, though, when he finally stepped in front of Sephiroth and came to a stop. In the low light of the mako, his face was a grotesque landscape of dark shadows and eerie green._

_“Do you have any idea why you are here, Sephiroth?” Hojo had asked him menacingly, his voice as unpleasant and oily as ever, but layered with something hissing and menacing, monstrous. In the hollow shadows of his eye sockets, Hojo’s left eye began to glow red. Trembling a little now, Sephiroth shook his head. “You have disappointed me for the last time,” the scientist said threateningly. “You are not_ worthy _of the gifts in your blood, so I am going to drain it out of you. A little at a time.”_

_Hojo picked the bone saw up off the table and grinned, teeth impossibly white in the green-tinted gloom…_

_The next thing Sephiroth became aware of was someone shaking him, and the boy had jolted violently awake, lashing out on instinct before he could remember where he was. The heel of his hand made solid contact with Owen’s sternum, and the smaller boy’s breath left him in a huff as he went tumbling off the top bunk._

_Sephiroth had come to his senses and jumped down to check on the boy before Owen had even managed to gain his breath back. The commotion had woken up many of the other boys, and he dimly registered someone calling to get a nurse. Sephiroth had held Owen’s hand and apologized to the boy, over and over again, the words growing ever closer to sobs as he repeated them. Sephiroth’s tears wouldn’t come, though Owen had started crying when the shock wore off. The nurse had shown up not long after with the Headmistress at her heels. Owen had been told the following day that he had a cracked rib, a concussion, and directions from his parents that he was never,_ ever _to speak to Sephiroth again. The school counselor had even changed their schedules to put them in different classes._

 _Sephiroth had shut down after that, shut everyone else out. He’d been right about Hojo—the man_ had _been angry about his friendship with Owen, and he had made it abundantly clear that any such fraternization with the other children would be punished. Severely. He also assured Sephiroth that_ he _would not be the one receiving the punishment (“You will heal from it,” the scientist had explained, “your ‘friend’ will not”). So Sephiroth never went to another slumber party, or played hide-and-seek, or learned what a piggyback ride was. He never made another friend, and he had never, he now realized, actually experienced what it was like to be a child._

“Well?” Aerith had asked, snapping him back to reality. Right. Her sarcastic question, spoken as a teasing kind of jest. There was no way she could know how much the realization that no, he really hadn’t ever been a kid, hurt.

“…No,” Sephiroth admitted after a moment, his voice quiet and sad in a way that made Aerith go somber and cuddle up closer to him, wrapping the teenager in a comforting hug. “I guess I haven’t ever been a kid.”

“Well…” Aerith said after a moment, a little uncertain, but she was smiling at him again—a small, sweet, compassionate thing that lit up her eyes. “You aren’t ever too old to _learn_ how to be one, are you?”

“…I’m not sure that it works like that,” Sephiroth said hesitantly. The girl hopped out of the chair they’d been sharing then, grabbing his hand in hers and giving it a little tug.

“Of course it does,” she insisted firmly. “Come on. I can teach you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohmygosh I'm so sorry it took me so long to post this. I didn't feel that bad about that last cliffhanger because I've been managing to update almost every day, so of course, I immediately get writer's block asdflksdij. I hope you all enjoyed this one. 
> 
> (the poem is "The Grass" by Emily Dickinson btw)


	11. Warm Smiles Do Not Make You Welcome Here

Aerith hadn’t so much as crossed the parlor before her mother stopped her.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” Ifalna asked the girl, rising to her feet to intercept her. “I thought, for a moment, that I heard you say something about hide-and-seek, but I must have been mistaken.” That was an admonishment if Sephiroth had ever heard one, and Aerith seemed to realize it too, eyes flickering to the floor. She wiggled her right foot back and forth a little before looking back up at her mother through her eyelashes, feigning perfect innocence.

“I wanted to teach Sephiroth how to play,” Aerith explained sheepishly.

“Not in the dark, sweetheart,” Gast called from the sofa. “Maybe tomorrow when it’s brighter, okay?”

“Okay,” Aerith agreed sadly. She turned to Sephiroth then. “We’ll just have to play a different game, I guess,” she said apologetically.

“That’s alright,” Sephiroth assured her. “You can teach me some other time. What else do you like to do?”

“Hmm…we could play tag,” she suggested brightly after a moment. Sephiroth heard Gast sigh.

“ _Inside_ activities,” the scientist stressed. “What about drawing? You like drawing. I’m certain there are some art supplies lying around somewhere.”

“Why don’t you kids come up with us to get some blankets, and we can grab those too,” Veld suggested, partially to keep the kid occupied, partially because he and Vincent really could use the extra hands.

“Sure,” Aerith agreed happily. Veld wasn’t surprised by that; she had struck him as the type who was happiest when helping out someone else. After all, that’s what this whole thing was about, wasn’t it? She was trying to help Sephiroth. She’d been pretty calm until she had taken it upon herself to give him a crash-course in childhood. 

“Do you need us to help?” Gast asked, but both Veld and Vincent shook their heads.

“I think we’ve got it,” Veld assured. “You two just take a minute to yourselves to relax. I know it’s been a rough night.”

“Thank you,” Ifalna replied sincerely.

She hadn’t had a moment alone with her husband since arriving here, and she desperately needed one. She waited for a moment after the parlor doors had closed to speak, making sure she wouldn’t be overheard.

“You should have _told_ me,” she told Gast severely. “You let me bring our _daughter_ here.”

“We aren’t in danger here,” Gast insisted.

“Like you weren’t in danger in Nibelheim?” Ifalna snapped back. Gast winced, and she immediately regretted the words. “That was unfair of me.”

“Look, I _know_ Vincent, Ifalna,” Gast began after a moment, choosing to ignore the jab. “I’ve known him essentially his whole life, and…he’s had his struggles, but he’s a _good man_. He wouldn’t put us in danger.”

“I doubt there is _anything_ he would not do for that boy,” Ifalna said in a small voice. “Is there anything you wouldn’t do for Aerith? I know what I sensed, Gast. It’s _here_. In him.”

“You’ve _met_ him,” Gast protested. “Does he seem like The Calamity to you? Does he seem anything like the villagers who were infected when she first came?”

“It matters little what he _seems_ like.”

“So you think, what?” Gast demanded. “It’s an act? That he’s infected like the others, but somehow an ancient entity from outer space has managed to effectively play the role of a normal human boy for the past fifteen years?”

“…No,” Ifalna whispered. Her voice sounded pained, and when Gast glanced over, her eyes were shimmering with welling tears. She blinked them away deliberately. “No. I think that he really _is_ just a normal human boy, and…I wish he _weren’t_ , Gast,” she admitted. “I _wish_ that I thought he was a monster. It would make this all so much easier on everyone.”

“What do you mean?” Gast asked warily.

“It dwells in him, somewhere,” Ifalna said, regretfully, but without doubt. “Its influence waxes and wanes, I believe, but is there. If I had simply sensed it because of his genetic makeup and nothing else, its presence would not have vanished.” She sighed, and there was a moment of silence. “Something has happened here. They’re afraid.”

Before Gast could find a reply to that, Ifalna shushed him. A few moments later, Aerith burst through the parlor door, carrying a sketchbook and an enormous art set in a wooden case. Sephiroth, Vincent, and Veld followed right after, arms laden down with pillows and blankets to use that night. They dumped them on one of the unoccupied sofas for now.

“I have a great idea!” Aerith announced. “We should build a blanket fort!”

“You know, that idea isn’t half bad,” Veld told her, catching her parents’ hesitancy to grant her permission to tear apart someone else’s living area. Gast mouthed the words ‘thank you’ in his direction, because this was bound to actually keep the girl busy for a while. “I’ll just go grab you a roll of twine.”

Veld returned a little while later with a large spool of twine and a six-pack of beer. He passed the former to Sephiroth, offering him a sympathetic clap on the shoulder.

“Best of luck, kid,” he bade quietly with a smirk. “I think you’ve been adopted.”

It turned out that Sephiroth was actually pretty good at building blanket forts. His height helped, as did his ability to problem-solve well past the rudimentary level required by the task, but mostly it was just easy. It wasn’t one of those childhood pastimes that required knowledge of the rules and nuance and playacting, just a clear objective and the materials they could use to get there. Simple physics. A little bit of planning. Tying string and draping sheets. That was all. It was delightfully simple, yet not mindless enough to let his thoughts wander too far off into the darker corners of his psyche they’d so liked to linger in lately. Aerith’s presence helped keep the shadows at bay, too, banishing them with the brightness of her aura.

When finished, their blanket fort was sturdy and roomy, a little cave of white cotton with a colorful quilt for a floor. With permission, Aerith dragged some of the spare cushions into the fort while Sephiroth moved a small table inside to hold candles for light. He situated it on the side opposite to the one the girl settled down on, not wanting her to accidentally bump into it. Sephiroth didn’t protest when Aerith asked him to join her, curling up in the corner with his book as she opened her wooden case and began taking out the art supplies. She hummed idly while she colored, a strange, otherworldly tune that may have been a lullaby.

Across the parlor, the adults were chatting over drinks in quiet voices, and Sephiroth found himself listening in out of habit. Gast talked a lot. He was the chatty, endearing sort of socially awkward it seemed. As Sephiroth eavesdropped absently on the conversation, he couldn’t help but think that the man reminded him of his friend Owen—eager to go on at length about any subject that interested him, whether people were eager to listen or not. Vincent had mentioned that the man had been a friend of his father’s, and Sephiroth eventually realized they had worked together as well. Gast had been Shinra then, once, but Sephiroth couldn’t make himself think of the man as a threat if he tried.

His wife, on the other hand, made Sephiroth vaguely uneasy, though he couldn’t exactly place why. She looked so much like the little girl who was sitting in the blanket fort across from him, humming as she scratched colored pencils across paper, though she was reserved and quiet in contrast to her daughter’s boisterous nature. The woman’s eyes were sharp, though, shrewd and analyzing, and she watched him intently when she thought he wasn’t looking.

“Do you want to color?” Aerith asked him a little while later when he set his book aside. “I can share.”

“I'd rather not,” he replied. She looked a bit disappointed, and Sephiroth was surprised at how strangely… _guilty_ that made him feel. “I would love to see what you’re working on, though,” he tried. She brightened immediately and came to join him in his corner, passing him a small stack of drawings. “You’ve been busy,” he noted, and she gave a proud little nod.

The first picture she handed him was of a little house surrounded by a garden, colorful flowers and green shrubs filling any white space on the page. The next one was a tent set up in front of gray mountains and blue skies, followed by one of a… _cat_? rabbit? dog? He wasn’t exactly sure. 

“And this one’s me and mom and dad,” she finished, presenting him with her final drawing, in which three people—two tall and one short—were standing in a field of flowers.

“These are really good,” Sephiroth complimented sincerely. For her age, they really were, even the _cat-rabbit-dog._ She beamed at the praise.

“Thanks!” she chirped. A beat passed, and she gave him a curious glance. “…Is Vincent _your_ dad?”

Sephiroth stiffened a little because up until then, this had been mindless fun. It hadn’t required him to open up, or be vulnerable, or answer questions about his life, and he really, _really_ didn’t want this to open doors to other, more uncomfortable conversations. He couldn’t think of any kind way to shut her down though, so he answered at last, reluctantly.

“…Yeah.”

“Who’s your mom?”

Sephiroth closed his eyes, and for a brief instant, he was somewhere else, studying the outline of a woman cast in the green light of a mako reactor, arms crossed over her chest. _My child…_ she’d said. He tried to shake the vision away. He didn’t want to talk about this anymore, didn’t want to talk about _anything_ anymore. _You never should have let your guard down_ , he admonished himself.

“I don’t have a mom,” Sephiroth replied hollowly after a beat.

“ _Everyone_ has a mom,” Aerith insisted. “Otherwise how would they get born?”

“Sweetheart…”

Sephiroth tensed at the sound of Ifalna’s quiet voice just outside of their fort, his eyes darting up as she stepped in front of the doorway and crouched down. He hadn’t heard her approach. She must have made her way over when he was distracted, he reasoned. It had felt like just an instant, but it must have been longer than he thought. The notion made him uncomfortable. The woman cast him a solemn, apologetic smile before looking back at the girl.

“You shouldn’t press people when they would rather not talk about something,” she told her daughter, reaching out and brushing her hair back behind one ear tenderly. “It’s rude.”

“I didn’t know he didn’t want to talk about it,” Aerith pouted. She turned back towards Sephiroth then. “I’m sorry. You could have _said_ you didn’t want to talk about it, you know. You don’t have to lie to me.”

“ _Aerith_ ,” Ifalna admonished tiredly.

“It’s alright,” Sephiroth assured, resigned. At least it seemed like her mother would call her off if she kept pushing him. “I didn’t give a very clear answer, did I? I _had_ a mom, but I never got to meet her,” he clarified to the girl. He hoped she would leave it at that.

“Oh,” Aerith whispered, reaching out to wrap him in a hug. “I’m sorry.”

“I believe everyone is about to settle in for bed,” Ifalna informed them. Sephiroth let out a quiet sigh of relief.

“I’m going to get another load of wood from the mudroom,” Sephiroth announced, eager to excuse himself from the conversation.

As he made his way to the mudroom, he wondered absently how long it would take everyone to notice if he decided to slip out of the house and disappear into the snowstorm. Maybe he’d manage to freeze to death before anyone could find him. _Could_ he even freeze to death? He would almost prefer that at this point. He took his time gathering firewood, heedless of the cold, eager for the moment alone. He stiffened defensively at the sound of approaching footsteps, and that feeling of defensiveness only grew when Gast entered the room, carrying an oil lamp.

“What do you want?” Sephiroth demanded flatly.

“I was just seeing if you needed any help,” Gast explained. “You ran off without a light or anything.”

“I don’t need one,” the boy said tersely, and for a moment the lamplight glinted off his eyes like a cat’s in the darkness, “and I don’t need help.” Gast rubbed his hand across the back of his neck nervously, eyes darting away for a moment.

“Look, I…uh, overheard you and Aerith talking. Sorry. Maybe it isn’t my place, but…I knew your mother,” Gast explained hesitantly. “I like to think that we were friends, and…I’d be happy to tell you about her if you wanted me to.”

“…Really?”

“Of course,” Gast confirmed with a small smile. “I would never turn down the chance to brag on Lu. She was one of the most brilliant scientists I ever had the pleasure to work with.”

_Work with,_ Sephiroth’s mind echoed, a vague feeling of nausea churning his stomach.

“…My mother was Shinra,” Sephiroth realized numbly. Gast looked mildly alarmed at the disgust that flashed in the boy’s eyes briefly, and he immediately regretted the words.

 _Of course_ , Gast scolded himself. This boy had grown up in Hojo’s clutches, had been twisted into something not-quite-human before he even entered the world, and _everything_ about his future was uncertain because of that. How much had he suffered because of Shinra? How could he expect the boy to feel anything for the company other than the utmost contempt? But Gast couldn’t _bear_ him directing that same contempt towards Lucrecia. For all her flaws, she had been a _good person_ , and he hoped he could help Sephiroth see that.

“She didn’t understand what the company was,” Gast explained, his voice a sad whisper. “She was ambitious, but she was also an idealist. She wanted to use science to make the world better, and she thought that Shinra was giving her that chance. I don’t…I don’t think she ever understood how dark the world could be, how cruel people could be. At least, not until it was too late. She was…”

“Naïve?” Sephiroth finished scornfully when Gast trailed off. Gast gave a deep sigh.

“Yes,” the scientist admitted, and Vincent’s accusation echoed in his head once more. _You knew how vulnerable she was, how naive she was, and you just let her run to him!_ Gast winced.

“ _You_ don’t strike me as naïve,” Sephiroth said quietly after a moment. There was something accusing in his tone.

“…I like to think of myself as a rational man,” Gast said cautiously.

“Then what is _your_ excuse?” the boy demanded. “For selling your soul to Shinra?”

“…There was a time when the direction in which the company was heading was… _unclear_. Shinra was founded as a weapons company, but after it moved into the power sector, mako energy became the company’s main focus. Many of us, at the time, thought that we could steer the company in the right direction, that we could use Shinra’s wealth and influence for good, that we could bring technology and modern comforts to even the most remote of households—”

“Oh,” Sephiroth interrupted bluntly. “You’re a fool too then,” he observed, scooping up his canvas tote of firewood. Gast blinked a few times, but the boy was already walking away before the scientist could manage to overcome his shock and formulate a reply. Gaia, he dreaded the day his daughter became a teenager, and he took a brief moment to pray that she would never be so impertinent.

“Did Gast find you?” Vincent asked Sephiroth mildly as the teenager slipped back into the parlor, setting the canvas tote of firewood down near the door. The man was busy putting out the candles scattered around the room as everyone settled down for bed. A beat of silence passed, and Vincent glanced up in concern, the feeling only growing when he saw the hard look on Sephiroth’s face. “Is everything alright?”

“I need you to tell me about my mother,” Sephiroth demanded bluntly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays, everyone! I really hope they added a little brightness to the year for you, even if they were probably a bit strange for us all this time. Hopefully I can get back to updating this pretty regularly now that things are slowing down a bit again.


	12. Cosmic Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And in the dark, I can hear your heartbeat  
>  I tried to find the sound  
> But then it stopped, and I was in the darkness  
> So darkness I became _

_The sky had seemed too big in Nibelheim. It went on forever, and Vincent kept getting lost in it as he gazed out the window of the pickup truck from the passenger’s seat. It didn’t feel like the same sky as back in Midgar—too wide, too blue. He hadn’t seen a sky like that since he was a child, living in the countryside with his father, and Vincent felt haunted by his past in a way he hadn’t in some time during that long ride to the Shinra Mansion. He had been gone for less than a day, but it somehow made Veld and the city seem a lifetime away. He couldn’t help but wonder, as he flipped absently through the case file again, exactly how much the Director had known when she’d put him on this assignment._

_'Veld put you up to this,' Vincent had accused the Director back in Midgar, not bothering to knock before entering her office. She’d glanced up at him in mild surprise, more at his anger than his entrance, he realized._

_'Veld did no such thing,' she informed him calmly. “Though perhaps it’s good that the two of you have a break from each other for a while. It seems like Dragoon’s temper is rubbing off on you.”_

_Vincent had taken a few deep breaths at that before sinking down into the chair across from her desk. After a long moment, he sighed and lit a cigarette. “He’s trying to get me out of Midgar,” he said at last, his voice calm again. The Director sighed._

_'Alright,' she said glibly. 'You want to stay here. Fine. What other member of our merry little band of killers would you suggest I send instead? I’m sure that plenty of other Turks are suited to the task. They will be serving as a personal bodyguard to three Shinra scientists—who, as I’m sure you know, are historically less than tolerant of the sort of…_ antics _most of you kids use to pass the time. They’ll be around these scientists a lot too, so good manners and a strong sense of propriety are a must. Oh, and did I mention that one of the scientists is a woman? Pretty little thing. So whoever I send can’t think with his downstairs head, or we’re going to have issues. Plus, Nibelheim’s in the middle of nowhere. No night clubs, no brothels, no bars that stay open past midnight, judgmental locals, the whole package deal So I should probably send someone who can tolerate being alone…'_

_He had conceded eventually; the logic had seemed sound. If she were sending him here because of his past, she would have said something, wouldn’t she have? Surely she would have at least spared him the gut-punch of flipping through his case file and finding a ghost from his childhood lurking there._

Gast Faremis, _he marveled again. What were the chances? The scientist had been a friend of his father’s as long as Vincent had been alive. They hadn’t seen one another for the better part of two decades, but he was sure that the scientist would recognize him, even before he introduced himself. Gaia, this was going to make things awkward._

 _“Sorry, road gets a little rough,” the young man in the driver’s seat apologized, bringing Vincent back from his thoughts. The boy had introduced himself as Thomas when he’d met Vincent in town, though he had said little else during the journey. He had been warned not to expect a warm welcome from the locals, though he would have rather been warned about the abysmal mountain roads instead. Quiet locals didn’t bother him. His brains being jostled out of his head, however…well, it wouldn’t have been his first concussion. The stiff truck axel did absolutely nothing to cushion the ride as they bounced along, and it was_ almost _enough to make him regret refusing to take a chopper here. Almost. The convenience hadn’t been worth dealing with any more goodbyes; he wasn’t in the mood._

_“You need any help with your stuff?” Thomas had asked when they came to the end of the long driveway leading up to Shinra Manor._

_“No,” Vincent replied, opening the door and retrieving his bags from the bed of the truck. He looked up at the old house and sighed, debating for a moment on whether or not he wanted to smoke a cigarette to stall. Eventually, he decided there was no use putting this off any longer and made his way to the front door, banging the heavy old knocker against the wood a few times. A moment later, the door cracked open a bit, and a young woman peeked out at him curiously for an instant before swinging the door open wider._

_“Dr. Crescent?” he prompted, recognizing the woman from his files. She blinked wide brown eyes at him a few times in surprise._

_“…Do I know you?” she questioned after a moment, head tilting sideways a bit as she tried to place him._

_“I don’t see how you would. I’m—”_

_“_ Vincent Valentine?” _a familiar voice asked from behind the woman. She startled a little, eyes going even wider, and stepped out of the way, allowing Gast to come into view. The man was older, but Vincent would have recognized him anywhere just as easily as the scientist had recognized him._

_“…Hello, Gast,” Vincent said after a moment, going stiff as the older man stepped forward and wrapped him in a firm hug._

_“Vincent, my boy,” the man said with a grin as he released him, “what in Shiva’s name are you doing here?” He looked Vincent over for a moment, seeming to notice his uniform for the first time. He blinked, surprised. “Oh. Yes, of course. We’ve been expecting you, I just didn’t expect…well,_ you,” _Gast admitted with a little laugh. “I should introduce you to everyone, give you the tour. I see that you’ve already met Dr. Crescent…”_

_Dr. Crescent was staring at him like she’d seen a ghost, all of the color drained from her face. She hadn’t moved since she’d stepped aside to let Vincent enter, though she flinched just the slightest bit at the sound of her name._

_“I should go,” she said shakily, turning on heel and starting quickly down the hallway away from the two men, who both watched her retreat in confusion._

_“Lucrecia’s…usually not like that,” Gast had observed, mildly bewildered._

_And no, Lucrecia_ wasn’t _usually like that, Vincent had realized not long after. Around the others, when she thought he wasn’t paying attention, or when he was quiet long enough she managed to forget his presence, she was bright and cheerful. Witty, energetic, charming. She laughed easily and carried the conversation at dinner. Vincent had eventually concluded that, for some utterly incomprehensible reason he couldn’t begin to guess at, she simply hated him, and he had decided to go on with his life._

_Then she had started watching him play piano when she thought he wasn’t looking. She still didn’t speak to him, had barely uttered a word to him since she had excused herself after his arrival, but he kept catching her lingering in doorways, making up excuses to stay in the parlor. He had been glad, at first, that she had at least stopped treating him like a pariah, but it was almost worse, her lurking after him like a shadow._

_He had been on the verge of confronting her the day she left her customary listening place by the door and drifted closer to him as he played, cautious like a wild thing, and he suspected that if he decided to reprimand her now, she’d skitter off like a startled deer, and she wouldn’t bother him again. Not for a while, at least. But Vincent had held his silence, and she had stopped beside the piano bench, simply standing at his side until he shifted to make room for her. She settled down beside him cautiously, focusing on his hands on the keys instead of meeting his eyes. She didn’t look up at him until he had finished playing, and when she did, her gaze was soft and warm—soft and warm the way her thigh was as it pressed into his through the thin fabric of her dress._

_“You play beautifully,” she said sincerely, and Gaia, he should have stood and walked away then, but instead…_

_“Now that you’ve emerged from your hiding place, do you have any requests?” he had asked with a small smile. She had a terrible taste in music—most of it pop and alternative old enough to have been new when their parents were young—but he had humored her. In that, and in everything else._

_“You don’t have to come with me, Vincent,” she said firmly yet another time. It was a sunny Saturday morning a few months after she had begun to acknowledge his presence, and she was arguing with him as he finished his coffee. “I’m perfectly capable of going for a walk on my own.”_

_“You know I can’t let you do that,” Vincent had sighed tiredly._

_“Do you go on morning strolls with Gast and Hojo too, then?” she’d demanded, hands coming to rest on her hips. She was wearing a form-fitting sundress that day, her labcoat absent, her usual heels replaced with a pair of boots. “Or am I the only person helpless enough to require an escort everywhere I go?”_

_“If either Gast or Hojo were ever possessed by the need to take a morning stroll, then_ yes, _I would insist on accompanying them as well,” he insisted, “because that’s my_ job.”

_Lucrecia snorted and gave her eyes a little roll, clearly not believing him. “Mhm,” she hummed derisively. “It has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that I’m the only woman here.”_

_“Well,” Vincent conceded, and she crossed her arms across her chest triumphantly, “I will admit that perhaps plays a part in my_ enjoyment _of said morning stroll…but I would still go regardless…at a distance, perhaps. A rather large one, in Hojo’s case.”_

_“Vincent,” she chuckled, shoving him in playful reproach. “Hojo is a brilliant scientist.”_

_“Hojo is an ass,” he countered simply. She spat her tea back into her cup before it could come out through her nose and clamped a hand across her mouth to contain her laughter._

_“You’re_ awful,” _she observed in amused surprise. “What’s gotten into you today? I had no idea you could be this…” She wasn’t sure_ what _this was, though, so she just trailed off with another little laugh, and Vincent glanced up at her from his spot at the small table in the kitchen, mischief glimmering in his mahogany eyes._

_“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he’d informed her with a smirk._

_A little while later, she was asking him what was taking so long, popping her head back into the kitchen as he finished drying his mug. Impatient, foot tapping against the tiled floor. Waiting for him. He’d checked his gun again and joined her, smiling just the slightest bit because he realized she wanted him there. It was an odd feeling, and a nice one, he’d mused._

_They had walked up the mountain together, talking the path up to the reactor and continuing past it, up the craggy, rocky hillside where rugged wildflowers bloomed. Their stroll had turned into a hike before they knew it, but neither of them minded, really. The day was pretty, and the burn in their legs was nice after lounging around the manor so long. They had turned back around noon, in time to make it back to the mansion for a late lunch, and had made it almost to the reactor when they had heard the growl. The sound had made Lucrecia freeze in fear. Vincent didn’t freeze. He simply drew his gun in one swift motion and pulled her behind him as a Nibel wolf leaped from the underbrush lining the trail beside them. It rounded on them, fur bristling, and he squeezed the trigger. Behind him, Lucrecia let out a little squeak of surprise and clutched him closer._

_“Are you alright?” he’d asked, turning to face her without bothering to watch the creature’s body fall; he knew he’d hit his mark. Lucrecia was trembling._

_“I’m fine,” she’d insisted once she found her voice. She tried to look over his shoulder towards the body, but Vincent had placed his hand on the small of her back and gently steered her away. She had thanked him for that, later, and at that moment he’d taken it upon himself to shield her from the ugliness in the world as much as he could, even the ugliness in himself. No,_ especially _the ugliness in himself. Looking back, he would hate himself for that, but at the time, she’d managed to make him forget it himself occasionally, and the feeling had been too precious to shatter._

_“What’s this?” Vincent had asked when he opened his door to find Lucrecia waiting in the hallway outside his room, a basket in her hands. It was a week after the incident with the Nibel wolf, and she’d treated him differently ever since, lingering nearby, prattling on in his direction, trying to bring him into conversations between the scientists at dinner time._

_“I’ve decided I want to have a picnic,” she told him with a warm, impish smile. “So I’ve been waiting on my escort.”_

_“I see the incident on the mountain last week convinced you it’s prudent to have protection,” he observed with the smallest curl of his lips, but she just huffed and rolled her eyes._

_“No,” she said, “the incident on the mountain last week made me realize I need to ask you for shooting lessons.” Vincent let out a quiet, amused snort. “It just turns out that you’re not terrible company.”_

“Oh?”

_“So I_ suppose _I’ll let you do your job,” she conceded with a taunting smile. “I’d hate for you to get in trouble on my account.”_

_She had packed a picnic for two, he saw when they reached their destination. Meticulously and with care, with intention to impress. She must have woken up incredibly early or stayed up incredibly late to have done this, he realized as she unloaded finger sandwiches and fresh baked goods from her picnic basket. Lastly, she had pulled out two bottles of wine, popping the cork on one._

_He had blamed the wine, later. And the weather. The blue of the sky over Nibelheim and the beauty of the day, the intoxicating aroma of fresh air and wildflowers, the warm breeze in his hair. And he had blamed her wit, her smile, the way she somehow managed to make him not feel awkward around her, the way she had let her fingers linger against his skin just a little too long every chance she got. He had blamed_ himself _most of all, but that hadn’t stopped it from happening, not that time or the times that came after. Very rarely did he want anything with such intensity; he didn’t have practice telling himself no._

_The bottle of wine had turned into two, and they’d drank them both. She had looked beautiful flushed with the wine, laughing in the sun. The wind stirred her hair—worn loose around her shoulders for once—and Vincent had reached out to brush it away from her face. She caught his hand, fingers twining with his, honey eyes staring up at him through long, fluffy lashes._

_She had asked him at dinner earlier in the week whether or not he had a girlfriend. Something Hojo had said had prompted it, some rubbish about ticking biological clocks and the folly of career women putting a family on hold to pursue their work. The comment had clearly been directed towards her. Lucrecia had pointed out that all of them had put their careers above all else, and that the two scientists were much older and just as single. She had turned to him then, smiling—always smiling—her eyes twinkling with mischief. ‘What about you, Vincent? Do you have a girlfriend back in Midgar?’_

_He had said no. It hadn’t been a lie, but it had tasted like one, and Lucrecia’s lips had tasted like temptation and prosecco when they met his own that day on the mountain. He wasn’t sure who had kissed who, but he didn’t draw away when he realized what they’d done. He pulled her into his lap instead, and her fingers went to the buttons of his shirt as his tangled in her hair and pushed her dress up her thigh._

_He hadn’t slept that night, hadn’t been able to silence his guilty conscience long enough to doze off. He had written a letter to Veld, decided not to send it. The next morning, it would go into the box in his sock drawer, and he had added to it a letter at a time. His confessional, penned to the only person who would care to read it. He had tried to keep his distance after that, but she had made it impossible. She hadn’t treated him any differently than she had in the week before they slept together, but she kept up her friendly banter, joined him in the parlor for drinks while he played piano, and he hadn’t turned her away when she showed up at his door late at night, when the rest of the mansion was asleep. He had just stepped aside and let her enter, and he had been the one to close the gap between them when she hesitated._

_‘Did I make a mistake, Vincent?’ she had said._ Yes, _he’d thought,_ Gaia, yes. We both did. _But it was a mistake he wanted to make again. He couldn’t lie to her, so he had murmured her name instead, letting his hand tangle in her hair. He should have told her then, that what they had was doomed, but it had taken them more than a month to stumble into the conversation._

_Lucrecia had actually pressed him for those shooting lessons. It was late afternoon on a weekday, and the sun was beginning to dip in the sky. The days were growing shorter lately; winter was coming soon. They had walked farther away from the manor than safety necessitated, because they had wanted privacy as well. Vincent had taken the pistol apart and explained each basic piece and its operation to her in detail before he ever allowed Lucrecia to touch it. He’d then had her dry fire it a few times. ‘You’re going to flinch at the recoil,’ he’d explained. ‘You don’t want to flinch. Easier to learn this way.’_

_She hadn’t been terrible when he’d let her live fire, and she’d been quite pleased with herself for hitting her target. ‘Better watch out, Valentine,’ she had teased. ‘Soon I’ll be able to do scientific research and outshoot you, and you’ll be out of a job.’_

_But almost anyone with decent hand-eye coordination could be taught to hit a target a few paces away with relative accuracy. That had never been what made his job difficult. He probably should have laughed and pulled her closer, teased her, flirted. That was what she was waiting for him to do. Instead, he had blinked a few times, slowly, his face remaining passive. He had moved towards her then, slipping up behind her and reaching around her to place his hands over hers on the gun. She had melted into the embrace, sinking back into his chest and resting her weight against him, comfortable. He raised her hands towards their target, deliberate._

_‘This isn’t a toy, Lucrecia, and it isn’t a game,’ he had said into her hair, his voice gentle but serious. ‘You wanted me to teach you how to protect yourself, and I will, but you need to understand what we’re doing here. You are training for the day it’s another living creature on the other side of that barrel, training to take a life. Maybe another Nibel wolf, maybe another person. But understand that when you pull the trigger, something dies. We shouldn’t be doing this if you can’t live with that.’_

_Her hands had trembled around the pistol’s grip. At that moment, he had known, just as she had, that she would never be able to do it. Vincent had realized something else then too—that this bright, beautiful, idealistic woman would never be able to face the dark of him, not when even the thought of death made her tremble—because that was what he was, wasn’t it? Death in a suit, pantomiming humanity._

_It was their first and last shooting lesson. ‘I’ll protect you,’ he had promised solemnly._

_‘Because it’s your job,’ she had responded, somewhat sad and just a touch bitter. His hands had moved to her hips, drawing her body back against his and holding her close, his arms snaking around her waist._

_‘Because I don’t want to see you get hurt,’ he had corrected, his voice a murmur in her ear. She had wiggled around in his arms to face him, staring up into his eyes._

_‘…And when it_ isn’t _your job anymore?’ The real question hung in the air between them, a pregnant, unspoken thing._ What happens when we’re done here? _Vincent closed his eyes and took a deep, silent breath. They couldn’t do this. No matter what she thought, he was sure she didn’t want that for herself; he certainly didn’t want it for her. Even if it weren’t for Veld, she deserved something real, something with an actual person, with someone who could give her a life, a family, someone who didn’t have to wear a mask for her. Someone who had no hidden skeletons, no dark corners to get lost inside, no sharp edges on which she could be cut. A man who didn't keep obituatires as mementos of his work. Someone_ whole.

 _‘Then you’ll be safe back home, and you won’t need to worry anymore,’ he had answered at last. She had stepped back, not breaking from his embrace, but drawing far enough away that her body was no longer flush with his. ‘…You know what I do for a living,’ he said after a while. ‘I can protect you from danger, but not when I_ am _the danger, and that’s what a life with me would be. I…care about you, Lucrecia. If you got hurt because of me…’_

“Brooding down here in the cold all night really defeats the point of us all sleeping in the parlor, you know.” Veld spoke quietly from the top of the wine cellar stairs, knowing he didn’t need to bother raising his voice. The sound interrupted Vincent from his reminiscing, and he glanced up to take in Veld by the light of the candle he carried. “Are you hiding down here? From who? The kid? He’s asleep, you know.”

“I’m not hiding,” Vincent corrected wearily, without heat. “I just…needed somewhere to think.”

“What do you have to think about?” Veld set his candle down on the stairs and joined Vincent at the bottom. The firelight glinted scarlet off his partner’s eyes. It was chilly in the wine cellar, but not as cold as the rest of the house.

“I…don’t know what to tell him,” Vincent admitted.

“Have you considered the truth?” The words were gentle, in tone at least. Veld sighed. “Look, I know that it hurts, sometimes, talking about people you’ve lost, but I also know you well enough to know this isn’t that. There’s something you’re afraid to say. Who are you trying to protect, Vince? The kid, or yourself?” Vincent didn’t know the answer to that. He glanced up at Veld dolefully, thought about it for a while.

“…Her,” Vincent realized aloud in a hoarse whisper. “I think I’m trying to protect _her_.”

“…What does she need protecting from?” Veld asked gingerly.

“Nothing,” Vincent answered flatly. “She’s dead.”

“You _know_ what I mean,” Veld stressed.

“I want him to have someone to look up to, and…I would rather it not be the parent whose livelihood was turning living people into dead ones,” Vincent said at last. “Lucrecia was so brilliant, Veld, and so idealistic. She really believed she could make a difference, and if she had lived, she would have done great things. Things that made the world better for everyone. But she could be…misguided.”

Vincent had been so worried about hiding his darkness from her that he’d never seen her own, but there was a reason people say that the brightest lights cast the darkest shadows, and Lucrecia had been as bright as the sun. Meteoric—just as dazzling and just as destructive. She was incredibly intelligent, but she made her decisions almost entirely with her heart, her actions driven by her passions, her ambitions, and her fears. She had cared about things ardently and deeply, devoted herself wholly to things she deemed worthy, and she had a tendency to get swept away in the rush of exploration.

He wasn’t sure, looking back now, if it had been that rush or self-preservation that driven her to do what she did. He had started seeing the past with new eyes when he had learned the truth about Sephiroth. So many little tells, so many things that seemed so obvious in hindsight, but he still couldn’t answer _why_.

 _The morning sickness had started before she’d ever started seeing Hojo, even before she had_ stopped _seeing him. He hadn’t recognized it for what it was at the time; it had been such a brief spell, so easy to chalk up to stress or the stomach flu, but the conversation she’d had with him when she had stayed back from the reactor should have tipped him off. She had woken up sick again, so he’d made her peppermint tea and insisted she rest, settling in the parlor with her to make sure she followed through with the command. He had learned early that she had a habit of getting lost in her work, that she would sometimes forget to take care of herself or push herself too hard if no one was there to stop her. Her being pregnant hadn’t changed that, not in those early days of mild morning sickness, and not later, when the experiments began to take their toll on her._

 _‘Have you ever thought about children?’ she had asked. He had been so adamantly opposed to the idea that she had dropped the subject immediately, but she had never pressed harder for his reasons, and he had never disclosed the information, so that had been the end of it._ He tried to imagine himself in Lucrecia’s position: pregnant, uncertain, determined to prove herself, so reluctant to allow her identity as a woman interfere with her identity as a scientist, and knowingly or not, he had rejected her, had rejected their child. She had been scared, alone, trapped. Desperate.

“…She knew what Hojo was doing,” Vincent murmured at long last. At his words, Veld’s expression turned flinty.

“What the fuck do you mean, she knew what Hojo was doing?” he asked. Slowly, without inflection, speaking carefully in a way that let Vincent know he was trying to ensure he had all information he needed before he exploded. Vincent didn’t want to give it to him, knew it would do absolutely nothing to extinguish him.

“She…was helping him,” he admitted, voice a quiet, agonized thing. “I just don’t want him to hate her, Veld.”

“She was _helping him?_ Fuck, Vince!” Veld breathed. “He has every right to hate her! Gaia, I can’t think of a reason that _I_ shouldn’t hate her! How the fuck do you _not_? What the fuck do you mean _she was helping him?_ The fuck kind of monster could do that do their _own kid?!”_

That was an absolutely astonishing amount of ‘fucks’ in one utterance, even for Veld. Another time, Vincent might have joked about it, but even if Veld wouldn't have throttled him for that right now—and he would have—he was too weary, too heartbroken, to find the humor or the will.

“You didn’t know her,” Vincent whispered, but there was no conviction behind the words.

“I’ve never heard you say a harsh word about that woman! You talk about her like she was a gods-damned _saint_.” 

“…What do you want me to say, Verdot?” Vincent said tiredly.

“I want you to _make me understand,”_ Veld demanded fiercely.

_Vincent had woken abruptly, to screaming. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last. He no longer grabbed his gun at the sound, just pulled on his house slippers and made his way quickly and quietly down the hall to the room Lucrecia shared with Hojo._

_The scientist was never there in the late hours of the night when her nightmares came, too busy running his experiments behind Gast’s back to make it back to their bed until early morning. Most nights, Lucrecia never fully woke when he entered and soothed her back to sleep, was never aware enough to remember it the next day. Most nights, she mumbled incoherently, the words either too vague to comprehend or spoken in a language he didn’t know, though he couldn’t tell which. Other times she spoke clearly in ominous imagery. Sometimes, she screamed, and she simply kept screaming, and she wouldn’t stop until someone shook her out of it. She had woken even Gast once—over his own snoring, all the way downstairs on the other side of the mansion—doing that. Those nights, Vincent roused her, breaking her from her dreams as quickly and fully as he could. Those nights, after she woke, she clung to him and sobbed, the whole of her frame trembling with terror, and he stayed with her until she cried herself to sleep. Those nights, when he returned to his own bed and eventually fell back into uneasy slumber, he often dreamed about ripping Hojo apart piece by piece for leaving her to deal with it all alone. Those were perhaps the sweetest dreams he had in those months._

_It was one of those nights, her wails piercing the midnight quiet again and again as he made his way towards her room. He gave up all attempt at stealth a mere door down from his own, because if her screams hadn’t woken Gast or alerted Hojo, the sound of him running certainly would not. She was sitting up in bed, eyes open and staring, but vacant, still caught in her dream._

_‘Lu,’ he’d said insistently, sitting down beside her and placing his hands on her shoulders, giving her a gentle shake. ‘Lucrecia. Lu, wake up.’_

_Lucrecia had stopped screaming abruptly, turned and looked through him blankly with those same vacant eyes, her expression slack and calm, sweat beading on her face. When she began speaking, her voice was distant and toneless._

_‘The Planet is bleeding. It came from the wound. It came from the skies—‘_

_‘Lucrecia?’ Vincent questioned cautiously, concerned, shaking her again. Her hands shot up to his wrists, formed manacles around them, gripped them hard. She leaned in closer to him, and there was panic growing in her eyes, in her tone._

_‘—it came from the skies and where it fell the Planet is bleeding and it’s an imposter. It killed them all. It’s going to kill us all! The sky is on fire it’s burning, oh, Gaia, it’s burning, it’s burning, it’s—‘_

_‘Lucrecia!’ Vincent was yelling now, shaking her, because the sheer and abject terror in her eyes, in her voice, was terrifying_ him. _She squeezed his wrists tighter, fingers bruise-tight on the bone, and her fingernails bit into his skin._

_'The sky is burning, it’s burning, it’s burning and he’s going to kill us all!' she shrieked._

_Vincent slapped her. He was panting almost as hard as she was when she jolted awake, his eyes almost as wide as hers too, almost as horrified. She raised a hand to her cheek, confused by the sting._

_‘Lu,’ he breathed, some mix of relief and remorse. ‘I’m so sorry, I couldn’t get you to wake up. You were screaming, and I—‘_

_She threw herself into his arms, her embrace tight as a noose around his neck, and he felt the wet of her sweat and her tears soaking into him as she sobbed into his nightshirt._

_‘I’m so sorry,’ she had choked. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’msosorryimsosorryimso—‘ She repeated it until her apologies ran into an incoherent stream, the words losing meaning the way words did when spoken too many times in succession. Just noise, it was all just noise, vibrations. Meaningless, every conversation, every word, every vow and confession, every exclamation of adoration and cry of hurt. Just noise._

_The swell of her belly pressed against him, taunt and round, a promise of life, but the arms wrapped around his neck like a vice were bony, and her skin was ashen and pale as death. When her tears finally stopped, he peeled her away from him, gently but insistently, so he could meet her eyes._

_‘What are you talking about, Lu?’ he had demanded quietly, insistent but without heat. She started crying again, not the body-wracking sobs from a moment ago, but slow, fat, quiet tears._

_‘I made a mistake,’ she said pitifully, her voice small and choked out past the lump in her throat. ‘I made a mistake.’_

_‘What are you_ talking about? _’ His hands were gripping her shoulders again, he realized dimly. Too hard. He let her go, hands fisting into the bedsheets beneath him as he released her from his embrace. She was making pained little noises in her throat again, and she couldn’t seem to talk around them. She tried a few times, managed a couple of semi-coherent words, but eventually, she had given up the effort and gone back to simply crying. He wanted to shake her again, to scream at her, to throw something. He dug his nails into his palms instead, hard enough to draw blood, and took a few deep breaths._ Breathe in for four, hold. Breathe out for four, hold. Breathe in…

_He stood when he had managed to calm the tremble in his hands. ‘Your husband should be here doing this,’ he said flatly, and he had thought he was calm again, but he couldn’t keep the venom from his voice._

_‘Vincent,’ she had pleaded when he turned to the door. ‘Wait. Please.’ He had ignored her, taken a step. ‘Vincent! Don’t walk away from me, please. I need you—‘_

_He had whirled to face her, rounded on her like a viper ready to strike, and something in his expression had made her fall silent abruptly. Fear crept back into her eyes, a bare shadow of the terror from a moment ago, but it was present and it was directed towards_ him. _He closed his eyes, breathed again._

 _‘No,’ he began after a pause. Not a long enough pause, he knew. He could still feel his heart pounding, the tremble in his hands, the adrenaline. ‘No. You don’t get to_ need _me. You don’t get to demand my presence here, in the bedroom you share with your_ fucking husband. _You don’t get to toss me aside when you’re tired of me and decide to want me again when it’s convenient for you.’_

_‘What do you want from me, Vincent?’ she pled desperately._

_‘_ A fucking explanation! _’ Lucrecia flinched at that, going silent abruptly, the sobs startled out of her. He had never yelled at her before. She had never heard him yell at_ anyone _before, not even Hojo. Vincent’s breaths came in deep, uneven heaves. He found his senses before she found her voice. ‘I can’t be here,’ he had informed her flatly. Had he stayed, he may have gotten the answers he sought, but at that moment, he had feared what he might do if he got them._

_He had been so furious that he had left the mansion in his pajamas, without his shoes, without even his gun. He needed out, with a sudden and ferocious intensity that frightened him. He had stalked up the mountain, heedless of the dark and the danger, stopping at a copse of trees just below the reactor. He split his knuckles against the bark of the one nearest to him before sinking down against its trunk and burying his face in his hands. He hadn’t even realized he’d been so angry, not until it boiled up inside him and burst forth without his permission. A marvel, since he wasn’t sure he could recall a time that he had been angrier and still lucid, certainly not at that moment. Dimly, he realized that he’d become such a good liar he could even lie to himself. A note of hysteria bubbled up at that, but he choked it back before it could escape. Even with the pain to ground him, he was still shaking._

That rage had paled in comparison to the fury he felt when he learned what they were doing.

_He had taken Lucrecia into town. It was a peacemaking mission on her part, he knew, a ploy to get him into her company. Part of him, a rather large part, would rather have died than spend the day enduring her insistent attempts at making an apology—they were tiresome enough around the mansion, where he could usually manage to excuse himself, and he knew it would only be worse when it was just the two of them. But it was his job, and that duty still came above all else to him, so he had gone along, reluctantly. They didn’t speak on the ride there, Lucrecia merely grimacing a little in the passenger’s seat at the roughness of the road, one hand resting protectively across the swell of her belly as if that might keep the baby from jostling around._

_It had been a quiet day in Nibelheim. All days in Nibelheim were quiet, but this one had seemed especially so. The first cold spell of the season had crept in, and the locals seemed content to spend the day cocooned inside their houses, warm by their fires. Lucrecia was bundled up for the cold a bit excessively, or so it had seemed to him at least—wrapped in a heavy coat and wearing thick woolen stockings, a knit cap pulled down over her ears, and a bulky scarf wrapped around her throat._ _Vincent was in uniform. He was on duty, after all, and he hadn't wanted to her to possibly think this was anything else._

 _Her_ _layers were enough to mostly hide her pregnancy, and the cold brought color back to her wan cheeks._ _For a moment, standing outside the bakery as she waited for him to join her, smiling back at him in the sun, light gleaming off the gold-tones in her hair, she almost looked like his Lucrecia again. The smile she wore was wide and sincere, and her eyes twinkled with mirth in a way they hadn’t in some time. Nothing could hide how thin she had grown, though, or how tired. Even then, he could see it in her face when he approached her, her smile not concealing the new gauntness of her cheeks, the dark rings beneath her eyes that told of months of troubled sleep. The contrast only made it worse, somehow—his brilliant seraph smiling out at him from the face of a hollow, faded thing. The pang of worry he felt for her had been visceral and real, but he choked it down as he approached her._

_A few moments later, she was pressing a mug of hot cocoa into his hands as she joined him at the small table he’d claimed for them in the bakery while she was at the counter. Her fingers brushed his when he took the cup, lingered there just a bit too long before he pulled away. It was the first time she had touched him since that night. A bit of the light faded from her eyes at his reaction, and, sighing, she settled down in the chair across from him._

_‘Why did we never come here?’ she mused. ‘Before?’ The words were spoken towards Vincent, but mostly at herself. He didn’t seem to be paying attention, that handsome face of his passive and distant, eyes focused on nothing. ‘Not necessarily_ here, _but to town, I mean,’ she clarified, pressing on. ‘We never went on a real date.”_

_‘We weren’t really dating,’ he’d replied dryly, expression not changing, not glancing over to look at her. ‘We were fucking. There’s a difference.’ From the corner of his eye, he saw her wince, regretted the words as much as he savored the reaction. Being around her now felt like tearing himself apart—his need to protect her and his desire to hurt her like she’d hurt him in constant conflict. He would rather have avoided the conundrum entirely. Done his job. Finished his assignment. Gone back to Midgar, to his life, to Veld._

_‘Vincent,’ she’d said sadly, and he could hear the beginning of tears in her voice, but they were in public, so she had bitten them back. ‘I meant something to you._ We _meant something to you. I_ know _it meant something.’ It was a plea more than it was an assertion._

Breathe in for four. Hold four for four. Breathe out for four. Hold for four. Breathe in… _Vincent had chanted the pattern like a mantra in his head, trying to drown out his thoughts, trying to bite back his feelings, because Gaia he couldn’t do this here. He didn’t want to do this at all. A clean break. That was all he had wanted, all he had asked for. He hadn’t wanted anything else from her, hadn’t_ asked _anything else of her. Hadn’t even asked for an apology, an explanation. He had just wanted to move on, to forget, but her nightmares and Hojo’s resentment and the way she still stared after him when she thought he wasn’t looking, doe-eyed, made it impossible, and it was on the verge of shattering his last hold on sanity._

 _‘Clearly not,’ he’d replied curtly when he finally thought he could trust his voice. ‘It_ meant something? _You told me you loved me and started fucking Hojo_ in the same week, _and you want me to believe that it_ meant something?’ _He knew he should stop, because even if he wasn’t yelling, even if his voice was calm and his breathing was steady, he could still feel the dark pit of rage seething within him, turning his every word to poisoned barbs. ‘We’re all just_ things _to you, aren’t we, Lu? Other people? Tools and trinkets to toss aside and replace when we don’t serve you well enough anymore, when something better comes along.’_

 _He had looked at her_ then, _cutting his eyes to the side to stare at her through the dark fall of his hair, and for just a moment her heart had stopped. Then a smile twisted his lips, sharp and bitter, something ancient and tired and_ hurt _lurking in his eyes._

 _‘Or maybe it’s just me,’ he had mused. He knew when most people looked at him, they saw something inhuman. It was in his eyes, in his profession, in the distance in his face, in the way people said_ Turk _like it was a swear, in the bloodstains on his hands. ‘Because I’m_ not _a person, am I? I’m just a bodyguard, a hitman, a dog. And I don’t suppose I have any right to complain that people don’t see me as a person when all I’ve ever bothered to be is a weapon, do I?’_

_‘Vincent,’ she had said, pained, reaching out for him again, but he stood before she could touch his hand, movements swift and sinuous, rising and pushing his chair beneath the table in one fluid motion._

_‘I’ll wait outside the shop until you’re finished here,’ he stated, affecting a cool, professional tone._

_She had joined him a moment later, trudging slowly after him, head down. He was leaning against the bakery wall, smoking a cigarette, and he watched her with a critical eye as she approached him. He’d thought, at first, that she was simply moping, but he saw in her movements that it was more than that._

_‘Vincent…’ she murmured blearily. ‘I…I don’t feel…so good.’_

_He had already dropped his cigarette and was moving forward when she swooned, reaching out towards him for balance as she completely lost her own. He caught her beneath her arms and let her slump against him. He had scooped her up and carried her immediately to the town doctor, despite the protests she put forward when she was lucid again._

_‘I just had a dizzy spell, Doctor,’ she had insisted firmly as the kindly old clinician ushered her onto a paper-lined table. The vinyl cushion beneath it was cold through her dress and woolen stockings. Vincent was holding her coat and scarf as he watched on from the corner, trying to conceal his anxiety. ‘He’s overreacting.’_

_‘Perhaps he is,’ the physician had hummed agreeably, humoring her as he fastened a blood-pressure cuff around her arm. ‘First-time fathers_ are _often over-protective—‘_

_‘I’m not the father,’ Vincent cut in curtly. The man only missed a beat._

_‘…Regardless, we should still check everything out, just to be safe. I know you aren’t worried about yourself, missy, but you do have a little one in there to think of, eh?’_

_Lucrecia had relented to an examination at the insistence of both the men. It was clear that the doctor didn’t like what he saw; a little furrow appeared between his bushy brows and grew deeper with every test._

_‘Well, you probably passed out because your blood pressure is low,’ he said after a while, unable to hide the disapproval in his tone. ‘Incredibly low. Probably as a result of the severe malnourishment and anemia you’re suffering from. That’s why you’re so cold, too.’ He shook his head. ‘And here I’d heard one of the perks of working for Shinra was the healthcare package. Gaia, even an intern who couldn’t find a vein to save their life could see this woman is unwell. Have you_ seen _the recent studies on the link between fetal malnourishment and developmental abnormalities?’_

_‘I’ve just…been a bit queasy lately,’ Lucrecia had defended, her voice small. ‘It’s hard to keep an appetite.’ The physician sighed, his irritation fading as quickly as it had come. It was professional outrage, Vincent had understood, not directed towards either of them. His tone was soothing again, and when he spoke it was directly to Lucrecia._

_‘A common problem, especially during a first pregnancy,’ the doctor assured. ‘It’s also incredibly easy to treat. I just wish that someone had seen to you sooner. This all could have been avoided. I’ll write you a prescription for your nausea, and I’m going to write down the name of a protein powder you should buy as well. If you’re still having trouble keeping down solid food in a week, you need to come back to me.’_

_‘…Thank you, Doctor,” she murmured, taking the paper the doctor handed to her and forcing a weak smile._

_‘Before you leave, though, I want to check on baby,’ he insisted. ‘Just lie back for me.’_

_A moment later, she was lying back on the cold table, her dress pulled up over her belly and a blanket draped around her legs to conceal her modesty, the doctor’s stethoscope a circle of cold against her skin._

_‘Oh!’ Lucrecia exclaimed in surprise, and the doctor gave his first smile since he’d taken her blood pressure. ‘That’s the first time I’ve felt him kick that hard! Oh, come over here, Vincent, and feel this.’_

_‘Lucrecia,’ he began reluctantly, but she had pressed again, and he hadn’t wanted to make a scene in front of the doctor, hadn’t wanted to steal both of their smiles away. They seemed like such a rare thing lately, smiles. Hesitantly, he pressed a palm against her belly, his eyes widening a little when he felt the kick. After a brief moment, he pulled his hand away and removed his glove. His bare skin was warm against the chill of her own. She placed a hand over his, smiling gently, and he didn’t even draw away. He was terrified of this—the idea of creating life—but it was miraculous, he had to admit as the shape of a foot pressed against his palm again._

_The baby moved, and he followed the motion, which is when he’d noted the injection marks. They peppered the lower part of her belly like freckles, so faint they were almost unnoticeable, but Vincent noticed everything, and he knew what those marks were. He drew his hand away, and his mind was racing as he replaced his glove and returned to his corner as the doctor continued his examination. He remained there, silent and still as a statue until the doctor had assured Lucrecia that everything seemed alright and given her his permission to leave. Vincent didn’t look at her as she adjusted her clothes and joined him at the door, just passed her coat and scarf back to her in silence._

_‘We should head back to the mansion,’ Vincent said in a clipped tone once they had exited the building. ‘We can stop by the pharmacy on our way back to the truck.’_

_But she had kept walking when they passed the pharmacy, not even slowing._

_‘Forgetting something?’ Vincent had prompted, pausing at the door. He hadn't even been suspicious then. He honestly_ had _thought she’d just forgotten; it wouldn’t have been unlike her._

_‘I shouldn’t,’ she had protested, thoughtlessly and mostly to herself again. ‘It might compromise something.’_

_‘…Compromise_ what?’ _he demanded after a beat, his tone low and threatening, pieces slowly falling together in his head. His fingers formed a manacle around her wrist._

 _‘…My_ birth plan _, Vincent,’ she had lied, and if she had done so with confidence, he might even have believed her. ‘I…want everything to be natural if I can.’_

 _‘Bullshit,’ Vincent hissed. ‘You want everything to be natural, but there are track-marks on your fucking belly? I don’t think so.’ Her eyes went wide. ‘Yeah, Lu. I have eyes._ What might it compromise?’

_‘Vincent, I—’ but she choked on the words._

I made a mistake, _she’d said_. I’m worried about our child, _she’d said…_

 _‘What the fuck did you do?’ fury leaking into his tone now, fingers too tight on her wrist. She squirmed against his grip, but he didn’t release her, used the hold to yank her closer until her forward progress was hindered by the swell of her middle, glaring down at her. ‘What did you_ do?’ _he demanded again._

_‘I…we…it was—” She hiccupped the words around sobs, tears coming despite herself._

‘We?’ _Vincent had pressed when she didn’t go on. His hands clenched tighter reflexively. ‘Hojo,’ he growled._

 _‘You’re,” another sharp sob,_ ‘hurting,’ _sob, ‘me.’_

 _He released her like she’d scalded him, not because he_ didn’t _want to hurt her, but because he_ did.

_‘I’ll get my answers from him, then,’ he’d muttered, turning to stalk back towards the truck, long legs carrying him away from her as quickly as he could. He was vaguely aware of her hurrying to follow him, and he knew that he should slow down, should wait. She was sick and weak and exhausted, and the last thing she needed to do right then was chase him across town, but the best place for her to be right now was far away from him, at least so long as his temper was raging._

_He had waited for her in the truck. Eventually, she had given up hope of trying to keep up with him, and she seemed vaguely surprised to find him still there when she arrived. He had debated leaving her. He couldn’t pretend that he hadn’t. Only devotion to his job, professional responsibility, held him there, hands clenched on the wheel so hard they were shaking. He stared straight ahead as she approached the vehicle, not acknowledging her approach._

_‘Don’t say a word to me,’ he had warned when she climbed in. She had heeded the advice for a while, holding her silence until he turned off onto the bumpy mountain road leading to the manor._

_‘You’re going too fast’ she had implored then, her voice small but insistent. He had barked out a bitter laugh._

_‘Oh, what? You’re concerned about the baby’s safety_ now?’

 _‘Yes, Vincent! Of_ course _I am! He’s my_ child!’ _she had snapped back, but her voice broke then, and when she repeated her words, they came out in a pitiful whisper. ‘He’s my child.’_

_Brakes squealed, and Vincent threw the truck into park, bringing them to a lurching stop. He had turned to look at her then, his calm façade shattered, his eyes, his voice, filled with hurt and fury and yearning desperation._

_‘Then tell me this isn’t what I think it is.’ The words were a plea. Her gaze fell from his._

_‘I…can’t do that,’ she had admitted miserably. Vincent’s forehead slumped into the steering wheel, and he held his head with his hands, fingers knotting into his hair at the root._

_‘What did you do?’ he murmured numbly. She saw the tremble return to his hands._

_“I…The purpose of the Jenova Project is to analyze a Cetra’s genetic profile, isolate the genome that allowed them to locate mako wells, and find a mechanical way to reproduce the ability. Hojo and I...it’s infinitely more possible to pass on genetically-granted abilities to a human than a machine—’`_

_‘So you just what?! Volunteered your own unborn child? Injected your baby with—with fucking_ what, _Lu?’_

_‘…Stem cells,’ she admitted in a whisper._

_‘From that_ thing?!’ _he was shouting again. He couldn’t help it._

 _‘She’s human, Vincent!’ Lucrecia had insisted, pleading. ‘The Cetra were human. I would never hurt him, I would never,_ ever _hurt him.’_

 _‘_ Then why are you doing this?!’

 _‘I…’ she stammered. She had stared up at him then, her eyes still glimmering with unshed tears, long lashes clumping together with the damp. She stared_ _intently, as if she were trying to communicate something with her gaze, but whatever message she had been trying to give, he couldn’t read. ‘The company only cares about finding mako. They’re a power company; it makes sense, but…they’re squandering this opportunity, don’t you see? That was only a little_ piece _of what the Cetra could do. All of our research indicates that they lived longer lives, were more resilient to disease. And they could predict natural disasters, sense the fertility of the land. We could feed so many people, save so many lives! And we could bring mako power to the entire planet, completely revolutionize the way we live our lives. Vincent—’_

 _He had exited the truck, spilling out of the driver’s seat and collapsing back against the door after slamming it, panting like he had been suffocating in there, as if someone had run the exhaust line into the cabin and closed the vents. If he had stayed any longer, it likely would have been just as deadly too, though perhaps not for him. He couldn’t listen to it anymore. He had walked the remaining miles back to the mansion, ignoring the sound of her voice calling after him._ He had known she was lying, even then, had known she was hiding something, obscuring her true motives. 

_“Vincent,”_ a voice pressed impatiently. Not Lucrecia’s, but Veld's. Vincent turned his eyes back towards the man, remembered his forgotten question.

“I can’t explain it,” he admitted. “I can’t explain why, because I don’t _know,_ because I don’t understand it either. She was pregnant with my _child,_ and instead of _telling me_ , she married that fucking bastard to hide it, and then... She clearly wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“She was clearly _out of her fucking mind_ ,” Veld corrected tersely.

“Maybe,” Vincent admitted in a murmur. “Maybe she really was…unbalanced. All along, not just near the end. Maybe I just didn’t see it before. Maybe she was afraid. Maybe Hojo manipulated her. I’ll never understand, and I’ll never get to ask her now. I just… I don’t want him to think she was evil, Veld, that she was _anything_ like Hojo, because she wasn’t. Gaia, whatever else she was, she wasn’t that. How…how do I make him see that?”

Veld sighed and stepped forward to wrap Vincent in his arms, clutched him close, ran a gentle hand through his hair, because there was no comforting way to say the words.

“…I don’t think you _do_ , Vince,” Veld confessed gently.


	13. Bloodlines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: somewhat graphic description of a suicide
> 
> This is another pretty long chapter. I know there's been a lot of set-up and flashbacks in these last few, but I hope you'll bear with me. Things are coming to a head soon.

Veld had never seen Sephiroth angry with Vincent like this, and he didn’t like it. The kid had barely said a word since he’d woken that morning, and when Vincent had tried to speak to him in the parlor, he had simply pretended the man didn’t exist. Vincent had given up quickly after that, not wanting to press him in front of company, Veld knew. Gaia, he hoped this blew over before they all left. It would be so much less painful to settle this under the watchful gazes of their house guests, where Vincent and Sephiroth would be less likely to try to kill each other. Again. He hoped.

He was trying his damnedest to avoid choosing a side, to stay out of the conflict. Truthfully, even if he _had_ tried to work out which one of them was right and stand by him, he wasn’t sure if either of them was actually in the wrong.

“You can’t just _keep_ this from him,” Veld had reprimanded Vincent the night before, mostly managing to keep the fire from his tone.

“I’m not,” Vincent had insisted. He sounded so _tired_ , Veld realized, and he looked it too. Exhaustion was written into every line of him—the slump of his shoulders and the hollowness of his eyes, the hint of sorrow he didn’t quite have the energy to hide behind his usual passive mask. “But…this might be… _ugly_ ,” he admitted. “We don’t need an audience for this. When they leave. I’ll tell him when they leave.”

Veld had conceded that, but Sephiroth hadn’t been as reasonable.

“It’s always _later_ with this, with _her_!” he had snapped at Vincent’s words while the three of them were making breakfast in the kitchen. “Every time I ask, you just push the question aside. You just _run_ from it. Are you not the one who told me running doesn’t solve anything? That it’s something only cowards do? So what does that make you?”

Veld knew that he should step in, say something, stop this, diffuse the situation. The look on Vincent’s face was…not one he wanted to see there. Most people wouldn’t have been able to notice it, but Veld knew he was on the verge of crumbling. He wanted to help with every fiber of his being, but he couldn’t find the words, didn’t know what to say.

“…I’ve already admitted to that, Sephiroth,” Vincent responded dully, scarlet eyes slipping closed. “But I’m not running this time. As soon as they leave. I swear.”

Sephiroth had clung to his resentment stubbornly, though, with the determined pettiness of youth. Still, Veld had to admit the irritation was likely justified. They should have had this conversation before now. He knew it wasn’t the first time the boy had tried to bring it up. Sephiroth had stalked from the room without another word, almost bumping into Gast in the doorway, though he dodged the man fluidly and without effort at the last moment, slipping past him and starting down the hall. Gast, startled by Sephiroth’s sudden appearance and realizing that he had walked into a spat he didn’t belong in, froze for a moment. After a beat, he realized that the child was the only one of them actually angry, though. Vincent and Veld mostly just looked drained. He decided to brave the room for a cup of coffee.

The percolator was already sitting on the stove, though it was empty. He ran some more water into the reservoir, added the grounds. Set it on the stove and cursed the time it took to brew this way.

“He asked you about Lu,” the scientist observed as he waited, unable to take the silence anymore. He had caught enough of their heated, whispered conversation the night before to gather that. Gast spoke to the wall instead of Vincent, so he didn’t see the younger man’s nod, though he vaguely sensed the movement and interpreted it for what it was. “What have you told him?”

“I…haven’t, yet,” Vincent confessed. Gast fixed his eyes on him then, one bushy eyebrow rising over the frames of his glasses, and he shook his head in exasperation.

“Gaia, boy,” he sighed. “I don’t blame you, though. It’s…not a pretty tale to tell truthfully, is it?”

“I don’t know _what_ to tell him,” Vincent admitted. Gast sighed and joined them closer to the wood-burning stove. They had cooked on it instead of the gas range that morning, trying to heat the room a bit, at least while they made breakfast.

“I loved that girl,” Gast said wearily at last, leaning against the counter and blowing on his coffee. “For a long time, I thought she was the closest thing I would ever have to a daughter. She was my intern when she was still in university, and I knew then that she would do brilliant things. But she was…never quite the same again, after Grimoire died. We never talked about what happened, not really, but I know she blamed herself. I know it ate at her.” Gast sighed deeply. “And her face when she saw you that first time—like she’d seen a ghost. I feel foolish now, for not seeing the danger then, for not realizing… but it seemed so innocent at first, and seeing her happy with Grimoire’s son…it just seemed _right_ , somehow, like it was meant to be, like the universe had delivered you to each other. And for a little while I thought she had taken it as a sign that it was alright to move on, to move forward, but…” But Gast had watched their relationship implode like the death of a star in slow motion, determined to suck everything it touched into the void yawning in the wake of its destruction.

“She never forgave herself,” Vincent explained, because even if he didn’t understand why Lucrecia had turned their child into her and Hojo’s lab rat, he did understand, in hindsight, why she left him, “for his death. And she never loved me, Gast. All I ever was to her was a pale reflection of my father, and it didn’t take her long to realize that I was just a monster wearing his face.”

Absently, Vincent wondered for the first time if she’d slept with his father too, and he couldn’t help but laugh at the thought, the sound tainted with hysteria, because he had thrown his _life_ away for her, hadn’t he? For a woman chasing a shadow, a ghost.

“Vincent,” Gast murmured. He wanted to deny the words, but he could think of nothing that would convince Vincent he was wrong. Gast wasn’t entirely sure that he _was_ wrong. Vincent didn’t seem to notice he’d spoken, his gaze somewhere distant and unfocused.

“Vince.” Veld’s gruff voice startled Gast a little as the man reached out to rest a hand on Vincent’s shoulder. The Turk had been so quiet Gast had mostly forgotten he was there, a turn of tables anyone who knew them at all would almost certainly find either amusing or concerning. Vincent’s gaze focused on Veld, a sad, rueful smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. Veld left his hand on Vincent’s shoulder as he spoke, a tether to reality. “ We need to figure out what we’re going to tell the kid.”

“The truth,” Vincent said simply. “He deserves that.”

Gast made his way to the sink, rinsed out his coffee mug. This was no longer his conversation to be a part of, he realized, trying to slip away quietly.

“Gast,” Vincent had called before he’d gotten more than a pace towards the door. “Just another moment. Please.” Gast turned back towards him without protest, waiting for him to go on. “…She never told me _why_. If you have any idea…”

“…No one respected her as a scientist,” Gast began regretfully after a long while. “They never did. It would have been difficult enough for her, as a woman in our field, but she was a _pretty_ one too, and people…made _assumptions_ because of that, called her merit into question. Everyone thought your father was taking a risk when he took her on, but their first few projects together were a stunning success. Their last one, however… Well, after…what happened, things only got worse. No one took her seriously; everyone discarded their research as nonsense. I think she was more concerned with redeeming him than herself, honestly. She so admired the man. No one would have given her the funds to continue their research, though, not then, and she must have known that. She needed to build a reputation for herself, and I suspect that she saw the Jenova Project as a way to garner the admiration and esteem she so longed for, but it was a dead end, and even then, we were beginning to realize that. But I don’t know why, Vincent. No one but Lucy could ever tell us that…Though I can guess.”

“Then guess.”

“…My guess is, she was pregnant and thought she was staring single motherhood in the face, and she panicked. I don’t think being a parent scared her, but doing it alone would have meant giving up her career, and the walls felt like they were closing in around her. She was afraid it might be the last time she would have a chance to prove herself, but biology dictated the timeline, and she knew we would never finish before she had to return home to care for an infant. So I think she decided to…cut a few corners.”

“ _Cut a few corners,”_ Veld echoed with cold incredulity. “Yeah, that’s one fucking way to say it, isn’t it? Gaia, I need a cigarette.”

“…I feel like every time I open my mouth, I make things worse,” Gast observed quietly as Veld stalked away, mostly to himself, though he said it apologetically, offering the remorse up to Vincent. Vincent shook his head resignedly. Gast had only told the truth, had only done what he’d asked him to. It wasn’t the man’s fault that he suffered from a chronic and natural lack of tact.

“I’m sorry, Gast.”

“He cares about the boy a lot,” Gast observed mildly. Likely as a result of that said lack of tact, it took a lot to phase the man, sharp words and anger rolling off him like dewdrops on a leaf. “You really have a family here, don’t you?”

Vincent didn’t reply to that, though, mind still mulling over Gast’s statements about Lucrecia. For a moment, Gast debated leaving, but in his misery, Vincent reminded him entirely too much of the messy-haired, knobby-kneed boy he had once been, Grimoire and Emiko’s talented, sensitive, troubled child. He had looked so lost after his mother died, almost as lost as he looked now, and Gast realized that look had never really gone away, not entirely. 

_In Nibelheim, Vincent had kept Gast at arm’s length. A decade and a half’s worth of distance had grown between them, but part of Gast had really hoped, in the beginning, that they would be able to pick up where they left off. They had practically been family when he was a child, especially after his mother died and Gast came to stay in the manor for a while to keep Grimoire company. He had only recently moved out, in fact, when he got the call from Grimoire about the incident with their housekeeper._

 _‘Gaia, Gast,’ his old friend had said on the other end of the line, his voice tired in a way he hadn’t heard since it since Emiko had fallen ill. ‘I’ve never seen him that way. I don’t know what got into him. He’s always been so quiet, so polite, I…It was like he didn’t even_ recognize _me. I had to_ physically restrain _him to stop him from smashing Em’s entire office…I don’t know what to do,” Grimoire had admitted in a whisper._

_Gast had tried to insist on moving back in, but Grimoire wouldn’t hear of it. ‘You can’t put your career on hold to be my babysitter, Gast,’ he’d asserted. Gast had relented. He wished now that he hadn’t. Grimoire had grown distant after that, and when they did visit one another, he looked just a bit more haggard each time. He knew things had only gotten worse, but Grimoire didn’t talk about it anymore. They talked about their research instead, about politics, Gast’s job. They reminisced about the old days, when Emiko had been well and Vincent had been stable. Sometimes Grimoire had shown him pictures, and allowed Gast to use them to steer the conversation towards current topics he now knew were safe—their trip to the beach, Vincent’s science fair project, fishing in the mountains. Gast had hated it—the song and dance, tiptoeing on eggshells around a man who had once kept no secrets from him._

_The last time Gast had seen Vincent,_ before, _the boy had been about twelve, and Grimoire had invited him to the manor to celebrate Midwinter. It was an invitation he hadn’t extended in a few years, and Gast couldn’t help but wonder, looking back, if somehow the man had known it would be the last holiday season they had together._

_Vincent had hugged him when he opened the door, and as he held him back, Gast realized with surprise that the boy was as tall as him now. Grimoire had hugged him too before ushering him into the kitchen. They had eaten dinner at the small table there, and Gast was glad for it. The formal dining room felt too empty now that it was just the three of them, but the little table with its mismatched chairs tucked into a nook near the radiating warmth of the old wood stove felt cozy and alive. Grimoire had laughed more that night than Gast had heard in the past three years, and Vincent had smiled in that warm, quiet way of his when his father reached out to ruffle his hair playfully._

_Later, Gast and Grimoire had sat up in the parlor, drinking scotch, talking, laughing. Almost like old times. Vincent had slipped off to the greenhouse when they finished with dinner. The boy had started taking care of his mother’s plants when she had grown too sick to look after them herself, and he had never stopped. Grimoire had confessed to him that he had been worried, at first. The boy was entirely too attached to the things, and many of them were incredibly delicate. Emiko had swatted Grimoire away any time he’d even gotten close enough to breathe on them. Grimoire was well aware of his black thumb and general clumsiness, though, so he had always laughed his wife’s threats away and steered clear. He hadn’t thought an eight-year-old boy had any chance at keeping them alive for any length of time, but Vincent had always been a diligent study, and he had followed his mother around dutifully in those last months, committing her every instruction to memory._

_When the boy had finished in the greenhouse, he had joined them in the parlor, putting a hand on his father’s shoulder briefly and casting Gast a shy smile before settling down at the piano and beginning to play. Emiko had taught him that too, Gast knew. Grimoire didn’t have an artistic or musical bone in his body. He may have looked like his father, but the boy was his mother through and through, the scientist realized._

_‘I haven’t seen him this happy in a long time,’ Grimoire had whispered under the music. ‘Things have been…better lately. I’ve been thinking about moving back to the city, finding us a townhome to stay in during the week, getting back to work. It’s been…too long.’_

_‘What about Vincent?’ Gast inquired in the same tone._

_‘He’s old enough to stay home by himself while I’m at the lab.’_

_‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ Gast had pressed gently._

_‘For him to spend eight hours a day with his nose in a book?’ Grimoire had joked. ‘Probably not, but such are the wayward passions of the youth.’ He sighed then, though, and his tone was hollow when he spoke again. ‘He isn’t a danger to anyone when he’s alone.’ Only when he’s angry. The words, unspoken, hung between them. ‘He…tries, Gast. He’s a good boy. He’s just...sensitive.” Gaia, what an understatement of the problem._

_It_ had, _in fact, been an awful idea. Grimoire never talked about what had happened, though Gast knew he had seen it—enough of it, at least—but he had managed to mostly piece it all together from whispers around the office. He wasn’t sure what had made Vincent feel the need to come see his father at work; some emergency, no doubt, that had no longer seemed dire enough to mention after the events of the day. Vincent had gotten turned around somehow, ended up in the area of the lab where they kept test subjects—the harmless ones, at least, a collection of stray animals scooped up off the streets of Midgar. Gast had never liked it himself, but reasoned it was better for them to do some good before they left the world rather than slowly starving to death or getting hit by a car. Vincent had no doubt not seen it that way, because he had taken it upon himself to start releasing them. A scientist had interrupted him, tried to stop him, and called Security when the boy became hostile. The Security Officers had no doubt only escalated the situation, as officers of the law are wont to do, but they had both hesitated to draw their guns on a child. It had been a deadly mistake on their part, and from what Gast had heard, it hadn’t been pretty. For a long time, there were murmurs in Grimoire’s wake about how his son had murdered two people over some stray cats. The last time his father had ever seen Vincent had been the day they dragged him away, bloodied and in handcuffs._

_They had lived in a sort of limbo for more than half a year after that, months and months of uncertainty about Vincent’s fate, finally broken by a curt, vague, and official letter informing Grimoire that, as a favor for his own years of service to Shinra, Vincent would remain in the custody of the company where he could be monitored and receive treatment. Their doctors had determined that, while he showed promise of reform, there was no hope of recovery, and while he may one day be well enough to fulfill a functioning role in their employ, it would never be safe for him to fully reintegrate with society. They had assured him that Vincent was a talented boy and that the company would find a place for him._

_Their requests for further details had been denied._

_Grimoire had written, and though the company assured him that they were delivering his correspondence, Vincent didn’t reply for more than a year. He had called Gast when he got the letter, and he had made his way over to Grimoire’s apartment in Midgar with a bottle of scotch in hand. Grimoire hadn’t said much on the phone, but his tone had told Gast all he needed to know._

_‘…What happened?’ Gast had pressed after a few drinks. His friend had hardly said a word since he’d arrived, and the tension in the air was almost tangible. ‘Bad news?’_

_‘He’s been accepted into a training program for the company,” Grimoire said after a dully after a while._

_‘That…sounds like good news.’_

_‘He also told me not to try to contact him again,” Grimoire continued in a pained whisper._

_‘The company can’t keep you from talking to your own son!’ Gast had begun, outraged, but Grimoire had just shaken his head and passed him the letter, tired mahogany eyes never straying any higher from the floor than his glass of scotch._

_It hadn’t been the company’s decision that they shouldn’t speak anymore; it had been Vincent’s. Gast’s heart had broken for both of them as he read the last lines of Vincent’s letter._ ‘…I have done enough to ruin your life, your reputation, and your name. Any correspondence between us now will only make you more ashamed of me. Please, Father. Take this blessing for what it is. Lay down your burden. Let me go…’

Grimoire had continued to write, of course, even though Vincent never replied, had done so right up until he died. It had been those letters that had finally set Gast off in Nibelheim.

_Vincent’s door had been open when Gast was looking for him. They had all come down from the reactor to take their lunch that day, a rare break from the monotony of salads and cold sandwiches, and everyone was almost ready to head back up for the afternoon. Vincent usually took his lunch to the window seat in the parlor when they ate at the house, but he hadn’t been there when Gast had checked, and from the looks of things, he had popped into his room to grab something before heading back down. There was an open box of letters on his bed, and Gast had recognized the handwriting at once. Vincent had frozen when he’d followed Gast’s gaze, remained stiff and silent as the scientist sat down slowly on his bed and picked up one of the letters, holding it gingerly in his hands._

_‘You never wrote him back,’ Gast murmured. ‘Every time he sent a letter, you know,_ every time, _right up until the end, he would wait. Every time he told himself that this would be the time you wrote him back, and a little bit more of the light went out of his eyes when you didn’t.’ He had risen from his spot on the bed and moved closer to Vincent then, trying to force the man to meet his eyes, to speak to him._

_Vincent wouldn’t look at him, but Gast could see his hands quake for a moment before the young man slipped them into his pockets to hide the tremor. ‘…It isn’t my fault my father was so stubborn.’_

_Gast had slapped him. It was the first time in his life he’d ever hit another person, and he wasn’t sure which one of them looked more shocked afterward. Vincent, blinking in surprise, had raised a hand to the stinging on his cheek, and Gast had gaped in horror at his open palm before looking back up at Grimoire’s son. And he had to look up quite a bit now, he had realized. He wasn’t a boy anymore. And Vincent wasn’t just Grimoire’s son anymore either; he was a_ Turk, _a company killer, no doubt capable of ending his life as easily as breathing. For a brief instant, a tingle of fear ran up his spine, then…_

_‘Gast,’ Vincent had said, tremulous, pained, his eyes still wide and shimmering just a bit too much now in the sunlight. It was the first time he had seen Vincent show a touch of anything human since he was twelve years old, and it made a pang go through him._

_‘Why?’ Gast had pressed anyway. ‘Once a month for thirteen years, Vincent. He wrote to you once a month for nearly_ thirteen years _, and you never wrote him back._ Why?’

_Vincent was blinking too much now, and when he had settled on the bed next to the box of his father’s letters, he’d kept his eyes on the floor in an attempt to hide the tears he was fighting._

_‘Write him back and tell him_ what?’ _Vincent said after a moment, and his voice had started out mournful, though it grew more and more bitter as he spoke. ‘About my job? About what I do for a living? About the people I kill? I could have sent him their obituaries, I suppose. I save them, you know. There’s another box in my sock drawer almost as full as this one. Maybe that isn’t enough, though. Maybe I should have told him how I did it too. My instructors always did tell me I have a talent for descriptive writing; I’m sure I could really have brought him into the moment. Should I have written to tell him about all of the strangers I’ve fucked just so I could feel something? Should I tell him how much I fucking enjoy it all?’ Vincent’s voice broke, and the tears came. Gast had just stood there for a moment, frozen, feeling both the tug of the past and the gulf that had grown between the two of them both so tangibly in that moment._

_He remembered Vincent’s first piano ‘recital,’ put on in the den of the townhome in Midgar Grimoire and Emiko stayed at when they were working in the city. They had all worn their opera clothes, dimmed all the lights save for the oil-lamp-turned-makeshift-spotlight resting on top of the upright Vincent sat at, six-years-old and utterly solemn as his little fingers plucked their way precisely across the keys. He remembered all of the times he spent holidays with them, smiles and hot cocoa and snowball fights and how Vincent had always hugged him goodnight. He also remembered all of the times he had seen Vincent just like this as a boy—emotions out of control and hating himself for it, desperately trying to hold in his sobs as dampness coated his thick dark lashes, eyes on the floor._

_He tried to square away that image of Vincent in his head with the words he had spoken, tried to imagine that scrawny, shy, bookish boy take a person’s life with the same cold, solemn efficiency with which he went about his other tasks, but he couldn’t._

_‘He would be so ashamed of me,’ Vincent exhaled in a trembling whisper, and the words had finally woken Gast from his trance. Shaking his head sadly, the scientist settled down beside Vincent on the bed. He hadn’t even hesitated before wrapping an arm around Vincent’s shoulder, whatever apprehension he had felt a moment ago gone._

_‘Gaia, boy, do you have_ any _idea how much he loved you?’ Gast murmured. ‘Nothing ever made him waver in that. Not once. Nothing you could have told him would have changed that.’_

_‘I just didn’t want to hurt him any more than I already had.’ Vincent sighed. ‘But I did that anyway, didn’t I?’_

“If she had just _talked_ to me,” Vincent said at last to no one, and his quiet, despondent voice had jolted Gast from his reflections. The scientist couldn’t help but see the irony in the statement. Lu and Vincent had been alike in that way, hadn’t they? Both of them tended to run from their problems.

“…Sometimes people make the mistake of thinking that silence is the most humane option,” Gast observed forlornly.

“…It never is, is it?” Vincent murmured.

Aerith was alone in the parlor, coloring beside the fire, when Sephiroth slipped in. She had brightened immediately at his arrival before taking in his face--the flintiness of his eyes and the hard set of his mouth, and she watched him with concern as he retreated to their blanket fort without a word. After a brief moment, she picked the book of poetry he’d read to her from the night before up from its spot on one of the sofa tables and followed him.

She crept into their cotton palace quietly and nuzzled cautiously into his side, looking up at him for some sort of reaction. He didn’t turn to look at her, and his expression didn’t change, but his left hand rose absently to ruffle her hair.

“…Would you read to me some more?” she pressed gently after a moment. He blinked a few times, slowly, shaking himself from his thoughts, and he did turn to look at her then, those strange, too-luminous, aquamarine eyes of his meeting her own. One corner of his lips turned up just the slightest bit, but the furrow that grew on his brow let her know the expression was forced. He looked more sad than angry now, though.

“I…don’t feel like talking right now,” he murmured, turning away again. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” she assured. She had only asked to try to cheer him, and while that had failed, she wasn’t ready to relent yet. “We could always play instead.”

“Aerith,” he sighed tiredly.

“You _said_ we could play hide-and-seek,” she reminded him. She gave an exasperated little sigh and stood, reaching down to grab his hand and giving it a little tug. “Come _on_ , Sephiroth,” she entreated. “Sitting here being sad’s only gonna make you feel worse. Let’s play. It’ll make you feel better. I _promise..._ You _said_ we could play.”

“…I did, didn’t I?” he murmured, looking up at her.

“Mhm,” she confirmed brightly.

“Let’s play, then,” he relented.

“Really?” she grinned.

“Of course. When you tell someone that you’re going to do something, you should always do it.” He mostly managed not to sound bitter when he said the words. As they made their way upstairs and Aerith gave him an overly-detailed rundown of the game’s rather simple rules, Sephiroth couldn’t resist the temptation to eavesdrop, catching bits and pieces of the conversation between the men downstairs as he tried to focus on both.

_—We need to figure out what we’re going to tell the kid._ Veld’s voice, gravelly and tired.

_—The truth. He deserves that_. Vincent now.

“Are you still listening to me?” Aerith inquired suspiciously.

“If I get tired of counting out loud, it’s okay as long as I still make sure to count by tens,” he repeated, and she gave a short, pleased nod of approval.

_—never told me why. If you have any idea._

_—No one respected her as a scientist—_ Gast again _. —They never did. It would have been difficult enough for her, as a woman in our field, but she was a pretty one too, and people…made assumptions because of that, called her merit into question. Everyone thought your father was taking a risk when he took her on, but their first few projects together were a stunning success. Their last one, however—_

“Okay, you can count here,” Aerith informed him when they reached the second-floor landing. “ _All_ the way to a hundred, got it? And _no skipping_.”

“Right.”

_—_ _She needed to build a reputation for herself, and I_ _suspect that she saw the Jenova Project as a way to garner the admiration and esteem she so longed for, but it was a dead-end, and even then, we were beginning to realize that. But I don’t know why, Vincent. No one but Lucy could ever tell us that—_

“I can’t hear you!” Aerith called from down the hall.

_— Though I can guess..._

“One,” Sephiroth began loudly, still trying to listen over the sound of his own voice as he counted aloud automatically.

Someone turned a faucet on somewhere, and for a moment the conversation was drowned out by the noise.

_—don’t think being a parent scared her, but doing it alone would have meant giving up her career, and the walls felt like they were closing in around her. She was afraid it might be the last time she would have a chance to prove herself, but biology dictated the timeline, and she knew we would never finish before she had to return home to care for an infant. So I think she decided to…cut a few corners._

_—Cut a few corners. Yeah, that’s one fucking way to say it, isn’t it? Gaia, I need a cigarette._ Veld scoffed, disbelieving and furious for a reason Sephiroth couldn’t understand. Platitudes were followed by a long moment of silence. He finished counting to a hundred before anyone broke it, the words spoken after too quiet to decipher as he began his hunt for Aerith.

“Ready or not, here I come!” he announced, pretending not to hear the faint giggle from behind the heavy drapes at the other end of the hall. He made his way up into the attic instead, letting his feet make noise on the stairs. Downstairs, the voices had gone silent, replaced by the sound of someone washing dishes. Absently, he flipped the switch to the attic light up, flipped it back down when nothing happened. Still no power, then.

He glanced listlessly around the attic for a little while, trying to take his time ‘finding’ Aerith. He had only been up here himself a handful of times. The space was cluttered with furniture and family portraits, with paintings, clothes, and baubles passed down through generations along with the house. Old mirrors caught the faint sunlight streaming in through the attic’s single small window, sent it glimmering dimly on tarnished silver and brass candlesticks. Everything was coated in a thick layer of dust. He trailed his fingers over a beaded wedding gown draped over a dress form as he made his way deeper into the clutter.

Sephiroth came across a trunk that, while not necessarily newer than the other items in the attic, was notably less dusty, eyeing it curiously for a moment before kneeling down and cracking the lid. The chest held a few boxes and narrow, rectangular, cloth-swaddled shapes he assumed were framed portraits nestled in beside a few thick photo albums. He plucked the top one off the pile and began to thumb through it. The photos weren’t what he was expecting—no posed family portraits or stiff school pictures to be found. There were photos of flowers, of landscapes, of the gardens outside the manor blooming in the spring, of the dirty streets and gleaming lights of Midgar, strangers going about their lives. There were a few candids mixed in here and there, growing in number as he flipped through the pages, most of them of a dark-haired man who looked vaguely embarrassed in the few shots where he’d noticed the camera on him, smiling shyly and looking into the lens with familiar mahogany eyes. A few of the last photos were wedding pictures featuring the same man and a pretty Wutian woman in a white dress, smiling at him brightly.

“Those are your grandparents.” The sound of Veld’s voice behind him made him jump a little. He hadn’t even heard him come up the stairs, and Veld was far from quiet. “Sorry,” Veld said remorsefully when he caught the flinch, settling down near him in an old, velvet-cushioned chair. “Thought you heard me.”

“…Vincent looks a lot like him,” the youth observed after a moment, Veld’s words only confirming his assumption.

“Yeah,” Veld confirmed, studying Sephiroth’s face briefly in profile, the full mouth and long nose he shared with his father and grandfather alike. “Strong genes there.”

“Do you know who took these?” He picked up the next album and began flipping through it as he spoke.

“No,” Veld admitted, “but my guess is your grandmother. Vincent mentioned his mom liked to take pictures. They’re…really good, aren’t they?” He observed with mild surprise.

Veld had never really thought of taking pictures as something a person could be good or bad at—just point and click, right? But evidently, he’d been wrong. He guessed he shouldn’t have been shocked by that. After all, some idiots thought the same about shooting a gun. Sephiroth just nodded in response to his question, delayed in a way that let Veld know he was half-lost in his own head, and the Turk gave a thoughtful little sigh.

“Don’t,” Sephiroth said before Veld could speak, his voice quiet and tired.

“Don’t what?”

“Defend him. Ask me to talk to him. Tell me I should apologize,” the boy clarified. Veld looked away, studying the strange, sinister shapes lurking in the dimness as he fished a cigarette from his pocket and lit it.

“I won’t,” Veld assured at last. “He…really should have told you a long time ago.”

“…But?” Sephiroth pressed, finally looking up at Veld, who still didn’t meet his eyes. “I know there’s a but.”

“But nothing,” Veld stated. “I said I wouldn’t defend him, so I won’t.”

Sephiroth sighed, shoulders slumping. “But what?” he relented, wearily, but Veld just took another deep drag of his cigarette, and Sephiroth’s mind went back to the parts of their conversation he’d overheard earlier. “He’s hiding something from me, isn’t he? All of you are.”

Veld looked at him finally, eyes tired and doleful.

“He’s _scared,_ Seph. He doesn’t want to hurt you, and…sometimes the truth does that,” Veld murmured sadly.

“Not talking about it doesn’t make it any better,” Sephiroth asserted.

“No, it doesn’t,” Veld agreed. “It just makes the hurt worse when it comes. And he gets that now. I really, _actually_ , sincerely think he does. He hasn’t always, and you’ve got every right to be pissed off at him—Shiva knows I’ve been angry at him for that myself more than once—but he means it this time when he says later. He just…doesn’t want an audience for this.”

“She worked for Shinra and he never told me,” Sephiroth informed him, finally tipping Veld off to the initial source of his anger. “…Gast mentioned it. I don’t think he meant to.”

“Probably assumed you knew, actually,” Veld admitted. “They met on an assignment, Vince and your mother.”

The words stirred a thread of memory somewhere within Sephiroth, but the two of them were interrupted before he could grab hold of the tendril of thought.

“You’re absolutely _terrible_ at this game,” Aerith had announced from the top of the stairs.

“ _Oh, Gaia,”_ Sephiroth breathed in realization. “Aerith, I’m so sorry. I was up here looking for you, and I got distracted. I guess I forgot.”

“You _forgot_?” she echoed incredulously, hands coming to rest sternly on her hips, and Sephiroth saw Veld stifle a laugh as he ground his cigarette out on the bottom of his house shoe. “Well, _you_ didn’t find me, so _I_ get to hide again,” she informed him matter-of-factly, her eyes flitting over to Veld then. “Are you gonna play too?” she questioned eagerly. Veld stiffened a little in surprise, and it was Sephiroth’s turn to bite down a chuckle.

“Yeah, Veld,” he taunted with a little smile. “Are you going to play too?”

“Oh, you’re ganging up on me now, is that it? Power in numbers?” Veld said with feigned dismay. Sephiroth's smile very nearly reached his eyes, and Aerith looked at him with doe-eyed pleading. "Oh, come on, kid. Not the puppy-dog eyes. Well..." he sighed, deep and insincere. "I guess I can’t say no to that.”

“You’re it,” Sephiroth informed Veld, giving him a brief tap on the shoulder before joining Aerith at the stairs, too quickly for Veld to respond.

“Hey, that isn’t how this works!” Veld called after him. “It isn’t tag, you know.” Aerith took Sephiroth’s hand and gave a conspiratorial giggle as she pulled him down the stairs.

“You know it’s not fair to let me seek!” Sephiroth shot back over his shoulder. “I’m pretty sure it’s cheating if I can hear you breathe.” A moment of silence, and then, “I don’t hear you counting!” Another giggle.

“Bahamut's balls,” Veld murmured to himself, resigned. “What did I get myself into?” Even now, though, with no one to put on a show for, he wasn't serious. He didn't lament what he'd gotten himself into one bit.

Veld liked the girl. She was headstrong and saccharine and carefree, and as she bounded around the house, he couldn't help but muse that he wouldn't mind having a daughter, and that if he did, he would want her to be just like this. A few times when he was younger--mostly during that brief, unhappy stint not long before Vincent returned when he'd tried to resign himself to dating women and settling down--Veld had allowed himself to imagine having a family. When he had, there had always been a girl. He had always been afraid, he supposed, that a son might turn out too much like him. It was nice to have her around, to get a small taste of a life he hadn't known he'd wanted until it was already too late to chase it. 

Even sweeter, though, was getting to watch Sephiroth learn to be a kid, fifteen years too late. 

Ifalna slipped into the kitchen quietly while Vincent was finishing up dishes, and for a moment, she had just watched him, studying him while his back was turned with unabashed curiosity She didn't understand this man. While the influence of the monster in Sephiroth waxed and waned, Vincent’s inner demons were a constant, their presence strong enough that she had sensed them without even trying the first time she’d met him, even _before_ he'd grown angry. She had no idea how he managed to control them, how he managed to stay sane. She could see the strain it put on him at times, but he bore it remarkably well, considering exactly what dwelled within him.

“Thank you for breakfast,” she murmured after a moment. He flinched a little, and she realized he must not have heard her enter over the sound of running water and the racing of his own thoughts.

“Oh, Ifalna,” he said, turning to glance at her briefly before going back to his chore. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you come in. I’m...distracted.”

“I had noticed,” she said gently, coming to join him at the sink. “Is there anything I can help with?”

“I’m almost finished up here,” Vincent had declined politely. “Besides, you’re our guest.”

“You have fed us, housed us, and allowed our daughter to play freely in your home for the past two days. It would be the least I can do.”

“It’s been nice having Aerith around. Things have been…tense, lately. I haven’t seen Sephiroth this happy in a while.”

“What happened, Vincent?” Ifalna pressed gently after a moment. “If we are to have any chance of helping here, we need to know that, at least.” At that, Vincent sighed and turned off the faucet, drying his hand and gauntlet off on a towel before turning to face her.

“Not here,” he murmured. “The parlor.”

They joined Gast in the parlor and pulled the doors closed tightly, settling down near the scientist in armchairs by the fire. There was silence for a while as Vincent stared absently into the fire in the hearth, light dancing eerily off the scarlet of his eyes.

“He sleepwalks,” Vincent began at last. “It’s been happening for a while, but we only realized it about a fortnight ago. He…attacked Veld and a friend who was staying with us at the time. Before it happened, he was speaking in a language neither of them recognized. He snapped out of it when I tackled him, but…” Vincent took a deep breath, let it out in a sigh. “He says he hears a voice sometimes. A woman who says she’s his mother. He told me that he heard it the night it happened.”

Silence followed the words, broken at last by Ifalna.

“Have you ever noticed anything strange while he is awake?” she inquired gently.

“Strange as in?” Vincent prompted.

“Strange as in abnormal. Anything that would make him different from other boys his age, other than the physical consequences of Hojo’s experiments,” she clarified.

“He was raised by Shinra to be a _weapon_ ,” Vincent informed her. “Without parents, without friends, without love. Gaia, of _course_ he isn’t _normal_.” Vincent uttered the final word like it was a swear.

“You told me, the other day when we talked, that you were worried you passed your mental illness on to him,” Gast remembered, trying a different approach. “What made you think that?”

“…He can be…violent. I’ve been on the receiving end of it before we really knew each other, and it’s like he just…goes somewhere else. When you talk to him while he’s like that, it’s like he can’t even hear you, and he _…enjoys_ it.”

“And did he act the same both times? When he attacked you while he was awake and when he attacked Veld when he was sleepwalking?” Gast wondered.

“Similarly, I suppose,” Vincent said after taking a moment to reflect. “But he just seemed… _robotic_ the night that he attacked Veld. When we fought…I won’t pretend he wasn’t trying to hurt me, but it was a _fight._ He was active, present, participating, reveling in it. When he was sleepwalking…It’s like he was just trying to kill Veld as quickly and efficiently as he could.”

Everyone was silent for a moment in the wake of that statement.

“You said that you sensed it when you first arrived,” Vincent said to Ifalna after a bit. “What do you mean by that?”

“The Cetra are able to communicate with the Planet, the Lifestream. We can sense spiritual energies...and _its_ energy? That thing you call Jenova? I would recognize it anywhere.”

“And when you tried to sense it again a few moments later it was gone,” Vincent recalled. “So it isn’t just because he shares DNA with the thing, and it isn’t always present either.”

“Gast did mention you were sharp,” Ifalna said, and it was enough of a confirmation for Vincent.

“That voice he hears, the one that calls itself his mother, it’s…that _thing_ isn’t it?” Vincent realized numbly. “Jenova.”

“That…seems like the most plausible explanation,” Gast confirmed.

“He hears it when he’s awake sometimes too, but he’s never done anything like that before," Vincent informed them. 

“Possibly, it simply has not happened yet. But, also...it is easier to influence a sleeping mind,” Ifalna said thoughtfully. “If it could make him act while awake it likely already would have.”

“If you’re right, then that’s good news,” Gast supposed hopefully. “It would mean that it can only _influence_ him, not force him, and as long as he’s awake and in his right mind, it seems he wouldn’t be a danger to anyone.”

“He’s already sleep-deprived enough,” Vincent protested. “He can’t just stay awake his entire life.”

“No,” Gast agreed. “But there are many medications available for people with sleeping problems, including those who sleepwalk or have persistent nightmares. Between his genetic makeup and the mako, it might take some time to find a dosage and formula that works, but there’s a decent chance we could simply stop him from dreaming. If that’s the only time it can influence him, we’ll simply take away the opportunity.”

“Do you think that could work?” Vincent asked with mild skepticism.

“It seems relatively sound,” Ifalna said with a small shrug.

“Either way, it’s currently the best—and _only—idea_ that we have,” Gast sighed. “Gaia, what I wouldn’t give to have Lucy here helping us. She looked into all of this so much deeper than I.”

Silence again, save for the crackle of the fire. After a while, Vincent rose, retrieved a few glasses and a crystal brandy bottle from the liquor cabinet, and returned. Ifalna declined his silent offer, though Gast allowed the man to pour for him, and he sipped idly at his brandy as his mind began running through a catalog of everything he knew about sleeping medications.

“…Gast,” Vincent began as he poured his second glass. “I spent the past fifteen years assuming you were dead, but...you’re here. And so am I. Is there any way that…Lu?”

Gast downed his drink with a wince and gestured for the bottle, not meeting Vincent’s eyes as he passed it over. He finished his second drink before he spoke.

“Lucrecia shot herself,” he whispered after a while.

_It was a day Gast would never forget. He had quit the project, had quit_ Shinra, _the day Vincent had told him what Hojo and Lucrecia had been doing behind his back. Without a word, he had taken a train to Midgar, copied his research files onto a data drive, and left the Shinra Building behind forever. Like Vincent, though, he had taken something prized from them when he left—Ifalna. He knew his decisions would mean going into hiding for the rest of his life, but he had made them without remorse, because it had been the right thing to do._

_Before he and Ifalna eventually fled north, however, Gast had felt the need to stop by the Shinra Manor and try to see Lucrecia one last time. He knew that her due date was approaching, and he had feared for her the entire time he had been gone, no matter how angry he was with her for her deception. Gast was no master of stealth, but he hadn’t expected sneaking into the Manor to be particularly difficult. He knew Hojo’s habits well enough, after all, and knew that when the man wasn’t at the Reactor, he was almost certainly in his basement lab. He had circled the house a few times, peering cautiously into windows to confirm the coast was clear before he entered._

_He had barely made it through the front door when he heard the gunshot, and for some reason, ice had gripped his heart immediately, a sick sort of knowing creeping over him. He had made his way towards the sound slowly—up the stairs to the second story, down the hall, almost to the very end. Not to the right, where Lucrecia and Hojo’s room was, but left. With each step, his feet grew more leaden._

_The door to Vincent’s room was standing open._

_“Lucrecia?” He had croaked quietly through numbed lips, his voice strained. He waited for a reply before stepping forward, repeating her name again. He froze at the threshold, incapable of taking that last step as if failing to move forward could keep reality at bay, could undo what had been done. Perhaps he had imagined it, but he thought he could smell the blood._

_He had found her on Vincent’s bed, gun still in her hand, her blood blooming red like poppies across the white linens. There was a note beside her—a confessional of her sins stained in splotches of crimson. He had taken her body back to the cave where he had left Ifalna, because he hadn’t been able to bear the thought of Hojo cutting her open._

_But when he had taken the sheet off her body by the lake in the cave to wash the blood away, the wound on her forehead had closed._

“But…" Gast continued, "When she and Hojo injected Sephiroth with stem cells from the Jenova specimen… During pregnancy, the transmission of cells goes both ways between mother and child, meaning mom ends up with some of baby's cells. Usually, the mother’s immune system kills these wayward cells fairly quickly, but in the case of genetic material from the Jenova specimen…”

“It’s a sentient virus,” Ifalna finished for her husband. “A planetary infection. It wants to spread, to infest, to consume. Once it attaches to a host, it never leaves.”

“The Jenova cells kept Lucy from dying, but we didn’t think she would ever wake again. Not, at least, as well…Lucy. It seemed like she was in a coma. Ifalna did what she could to heal her, but nothing worked, so we left her there and went to the nearest city to buy the strongest materia we could find. When we came back, she was…” Gast trailed off and sighed. “You…really should just come see. The cave isn’t far from Nibelheim.”

“You mean she’s _still there?”_ Vincent demanded. “ _Alive_?”

“In a sense,” Gast confirmed. “Though I doubt most people would call it that.”

“Gast,” Vincent said lowly, eyes slipping closed. “I usually pride myself on my patience, but I’m gods-damned tired and mysteries long ago lost their appeal, so if you wouldn’t mind elaborating.”

Gast blinked. Took a sip of brandy. Sighed again. Spoke.

“She’s in a sort of…stasis, I think. She...entombed herself. I…can take you,” he added gently. “When the snow melts.”

Vincent nodded and rose from his chair, gaze turning towards the window for a moment, taking in the clear blue sky and white carpeting of snow as far as he could see.

“I should go check on everyone,” Vincent murmured, excusing himself from the room.

“Vincent,” Gast called behind him gently, and the younger man glanced back. “Just…don’t get your hopes up, okay?”

A curt nod, and he turned back towards the door.


	14. When Guidance Leaves

Veld woke to the crackle of the well-banked fire and a gaping emptiness beside him where Vincent should have been. He reached out anyway, patting the space as if to make sure before rolling over and opening his eyes. They were all huddled in the parlor for the second night in a row, though they expected the snow to mostly melt by midmorning, when Vincent planned to leave with Gast and Ifalna to visit his dead girlfriend.

Veld let out a long sigh and sat up, shifting the covers aside so he could rise. He hadn’t been sleeping worth a shit anyway, and it was more than the hardness of the lightly blanket-padded floor beneath him that made him struggle. For some reason he couldn’t quite pinpoint or vocalize, anxiety writhed deep in his gut like a pit of snakes.

_The first time he could recall feeling this way, he had probably been about Aerith’s age, and he was getting ready to go to the market with his mother, just as he had a million times before. For some reason, though, he’d had this same feeling of yawning dread, this same uneasy sense of premonition. His mother had scolded him sharply for his sluggishness in getting ready and his absent demeanor. On the way back with their groceries, a girl had fallen in front of the train they were about the board. Veld could still see it to this day. She was arguing with a man—a boyfriend probably—and he had grabbed her when she tried to walk away. She had jerked out of his grip, lost her balance, and stumbled backward onto the tracks. The young man had stepped forward and reached for her, but it had been too late. His face had been a mirror of the horror Veld had felt himself as he watched her broken body get sucked under the wheels. It was a sight that had come back to him in nightmares for years after._

_‘You knew something bad was going to happen, didn’t you?’ his mother had asked him later. He’d given a sheepish nod, and when she had asked him how, he had explained the feeling. His mother told him that his grandmother had been that way—sensitive—and she had said it differently that time than she usually did. That time, it hadn’t sounded like an insult, just the best descriptor she could give of something strange and inexplicable._

_The next time he’d felt it, it had been the night before his father had thrown him out of the house. His childhood sweetheart, Mitchell, had snuck down the fire escape from his own apartment and slipped through Veld’s window, closing it behind him before making his way over to Veld’s bed._

_‘My folks are fighting again,’ Mitchell explained. ‘It okay if I stay with you?’ The other boy was already shifting the covers so he could climb beneath them, though. It wasn’t the first time they had done this—this had been their arrangement for years, even before they had realized what their feelings for each other meant—but still, there it was again, the pit in his stomach, the dread._

_‘Mitch,’ he’d whispered hesitantly. ‘I…don’t know if it’s a good idea.’_

_‘The hell’s gotten into you, Verdot?’ the other boy had asked at his half-hearted protest._

_‘Dunno,’ Veld had replied ‘I just…got a bad feeling.’ But Veld had relented. He would have felt guilty for sending Mitchell back upstairs while his folks were in the middle of a row over a feeling. Veld had woken the next morning with Mitchell curled against him, artificial morning sunlight gleaming in his bright blond hair as it streamed through Veld’s dirty bedroom window. Veld had petted it idly, and Mitchell had woken softly and slowly to the feeling, letting out a sleepy little hum of pleasure before catching Veld’s lips with his own, showering him in sloppy, inexperienced kisses. Veld had rolled on top of him, palming the other boy clumsily through the fabric of his threadbare sweatpants, and that’s how they’d been when Veld’s father had walked in. As he’d stood outside on the street and gazed up at his apartment, shirtless, barefoot, wearing his night pants, Veld had cursed himself for not trusting his gut._

_Over the years, Veld had learned that it was unwise to ignore the feeling. During his time working for the syndicate, and later, the Turks, that sixth sense had saved his ass more than once. The other drug runners in the syndicate swore by it, treated it like some sort of prophecy from the gods. If Veld ever got that queasy, anxious feeling before a drop, they called it off. End of story. No questions asked, not after they’d ignored him the first time, and a kid had gotten killed._

They were a rare occurrence, the feelings, and they had gotten more so as he’d grown older. Still, they had never, ever been wrong. Not once.

_He had felt it again one unremarkable winter day after Vincent had gone to Nibelheim, the ominous sense of premonition settling over him as soon as he’d risen from bed. He’d gotten dressed and made his way to the office in a state of hyper-awareness, waiting for the ball to drop. He had missed his morning train, had to wait around for the next one, chain-smoking cigarettes on the platform in an attempt to settle his nerves, and ended up arriving at work almost half an hour late as a result. As soon as he’d entered the department, all eyes had turned to Veld, then very promptly turned away, and the paranoia had only grown._

_‘I miss out on something?’ Veld had asked no one in particular._

_‘…Boss needs to see you,’ one of the other Turks had replied at last, eyes still not rising to meet Veld’s own. One of the snakes in Veld’s gut slithered upward to constrict his heart, and he swore the thing had stopped it beating for a moment. He placed his hand against the wall for balance, legs suddenly unsteady beneath him._

_‘…About what?’ he had croaked, though deep in his heart, he already knew Vincent was dead._

_His feet had felt like lead weights as he made his way towards the Director’s office, but when he reached it, he couldn’t make himself turn the handle on the door. He’d made his way to his own office instead, pulled out the bottle of cheap whiskey he kept stashed in his desk, and started drinking from the bottle. The Director had entered a few moments later, after he ignored her quiet knock at the door._

_“Dragoon,” she’d murmured hesitantly, but he cut her off before she could get any further._

_“Don’t fucking say it,” he spat. If she said it, then it made it real. “Don’t you dare fucking say it.”_

_“Veld…”_

_“This isn’t fucking happening, so don’t fucking say it.” His voice cracked, and he found himself standing without consciously deciding to do so, breaths coming in sharp heaves. He wanted to scream. To hit something. To turn over his desk, tear apart every inch of this dim little office that suddenly felt too fucking much like a coffin. Smothering. Gaia, he was smothering._

_“We received a letter from Hojo this morning,” the Director informed him quietly. “It’s about Vincent. While Hojo was at the reactor, it appears there was some sort of attack. Valentine and Dr. Faermis have gone missing. They’re…both presumed dead.”_

_She kept going, trying to offer words of comfort, he thought, but he could hear nothing but the blood rushing in his head, the pulse of his heartbeat a roar in his ears. Dimly, he was aware that he was shaking._

_“Get the fuck out of my office,” he’d said. And she had. After she had left, offering him up one last useless string of condolence, he’d sank to the floor and let the sobs take him._

Veld felt that same dread blooming within him now, and he couldn’t shake it. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to breathe easily again until he had Vincent in his arms, so he tugged on his slippers and a heavy house robe, lit a candlestick, and exited the warmth of the parlor. Veld had checked the kitchen first, then their bedroom, followed by the library, his father’s den, his mother’s office. Veld finally found him in the greenhouse.

The greenhouse was a large dome of triangular glass frames attached to the back of the manor, a rather recent addition to the estate, built on for Vincent’s mother. When the weather was mild, they opened the large folding doors that closed the space off from the rest of the house and allowed the sunlight to stream in. They were closed tight against the cold now, and he slid one open quietly on its well-oiled hinges before poking his head into the room. He had expected it to be gloomy inside, the moonlight that usually lit the space dampened by the snow, but it seemed the mild warmth of the afternoon sun had been enough to mostly melt it, and the light poured in from above silver and cold. He caught the crimson glint of Vincent’s eyes in the moonlight as the man turned to face him.

“What are you doing up?” Vincent asked quietly as Veld slipped into the room, his candle casting a dim circle of warm light around him.

“I woke up and you weren’t in bed,” Veld explained, moving closer to Vincent and finding a place to set his candle down. “Thought I’d come find you.”

“Is everything alright?” Vincent pressed gently, moving forward to step into Veld’s embrace. Vaguely, Veld wondered how Vincent always knew when something was wrong. Perhaps that was _his_ sixth sense.

“I just…have a bad feeling.”

“About what?”

“I’m not sure, exactly,” Veld admitted, resting his head against Vincent’s shoulder. “…I don’t want you to go tomorrow. I’m being paranoid, I know, but I just…” He trailed off with a sigh, unsure of what to say. Vincent tucked his hair behind his ear, leaning in and letting his lips ghost across Veld’s skin, and when he spoke, his voice was a gentle murmur.

“This will be the first time we’ve been apart since those few days in Wutai,” Vincent pointed out, “and I’m going back to _Nibelheim_ , or close enough to it, at least. Of _course_ you’re worried, Veld, but there isn’t any reason to be. I don’t want to be away from home any longer than I must be either. I’ll be quick—there and back before you’ve known it. You know I can take care of myself.”

“…I know,” Veld relented. Veld was silent for a moment, comfortable enough here in Vincent’s arms despite the cold, and as he clutched the taller man close, he tried to remind himself of the truth of Vincent’s words. His partner was still too skinny, but he felt _solid_ despite it. He knew Vincent’s strength, had witnessed it himself more than once, improbable and in stark contrast with his delicate frame. Veld could feel it even now as Vincent clutched him gently in his embrace, how easily his grip could turn to iron at will. He could still hold his own against Sephiroth when they sparred, and Veld had watched the boy kill a fucking dragon when he was thirteen. There was little in the world that could pose a threat to Vincent Valentine now, he knew.

 _He can take care of himself_ , Veld reiterated firmly.

“You know the kid’s going to be pissed at you, right?” Veld realized aloud after a long silence. “He’s expecting answers tomorrow.” Vincent sighed into his hair.

“I know,” he confirmed. “I…wanted to talk to you about that, actually.”

“If you’re trying to pawn this off on me—” Veld began incredulously, but Vincent cut over him.

“Absolutely not,” he declared emphatically, seeming mildly offended that Veld would even suggest it. “I just…I know that I made him a promise, and I don’t want him to feel like I’m breaking it, or like I’m just trying to push this off again. I want to give him _something_.”

“You’re saying that like you already have an idea in mind,” Veld observed.

“….The letters I left you,” Vincent admitted after a beat. “I would still have to tell him about…what happened after they ended—about the Jenova Project, about what made him—when I return, but…I want him to get to know her, and you know how I am when I try to say things out loud. I just make a mess of it all.”

“Are you sure about that, Vince?” Veld asked cautiously. “Those letters…don’t exactly paint you in the best light, you know.” They were Vincent’s confessional, words he had never really intended anyone else to see. They’d only been addressed to Veld because he was the only person who would have ever cared to read them, who _deserved_ to read them, if they ever saw the light of day. Vincent had only left them behind because, in their profession, he had known it was never guaranteed he would have the chance to say those things to Veld in person.

“I know,” Vincent sighed. “But this is the only way I can think of that he might be able to see the side of her that I loved…The side of her that loved _him_. I meant it when I said I want him to know the truth, and if he only sees her as the woman who helped Hojo push the plunger on that needle…he _isn’t_ seeing the whole truth, because that isn’t all Lu was. Gaia, Vel, what kind of monsters would the world see the two of _us_ as if we were judged solely by the worst things we’ve done? If _you_ judged me by the worst thing I’ve ever done to you and left out all of the love, wouldn’t you hate me too?”

 _It’s impossible for me to leave the love out of the worst thing you’ve ever done to me,_ Veld mused at the question, _because I wouldn’t have cared that you were sleeping with Lucrecia if I hadn’t loved you_. Veld kept the words to himself, though.

“I can’t help but feel like you’re asking me for permission for something,” he observed instead.

“I wanted to know if it was okay with you,” Vincent admitted. “I wrote them to you, after all.”

“It’s a damned good thing you’re such a prude, then,” Veld joked gently.

“Oh, I’m a prude, am I?” Vincent breathed in a teasing murmur, slipping nimbly from Veld’s grasp before the older man could react and making his way over to the door, slipping the wooden latch into place.

Vincent gave Veld a wicked little smile as he returned to where he’d left him, his gait fluid and measured, slipping up behind Veld and pressing his face into his hair. Vincent raised his good hand to gently brush the waves of chocolate over one of his shoulders so Veld could feel the tickle of Vincent’s breath on his neck. Vincent’s other hand was on his hip now, anchoring Veld close to him. Veld turned his head, seeking Vincent’s lips, but Vincent fisted a hand in his hair and used it to spin him around so they were chest-to-chest. A little moan slipped past Veld’s lips, unbidden, because Vincent was pulling his hair _hard_ , but carefully, fingers close to his scalp, making sure to grip enough of Veld’s hair that he didn’t actually rip any out as he pulled the shorter man in for a kiss, and Gaia, it felt _good_. Vincent hummed at the noise, and Veld’s hands strayed to the buttons of Vincent’s flannel nightshirt, fingers beginning to grow a bit clumsy with want as he fumbled at the little pearlescent fastens.

It was only when he slipped Vincent’s shirt from his shoulders and the moonlight reflected off his partner’s pallor that Veld realized they were basically doing this outside. Logically, he knew that no one would see them. Everyone else in the house was fast asleep, there was a blizzard’s worth of snow on the ground, and they were out in the middle of absolutely fucking nowhere. The nearest house was almost five miles away. He still felt more exposed here than he had screwing people in public bathrooms in crowded bars in Midgar. It was _impossible_ to be this out in the open in the city, he realized. There were always buildings blocking part of the view, obscuring the horizon, blotting out the sun, but here there was nothing but miles and miles of rolling hills, shimmering white with snow under a starry sky.

The moonlight suited Vincent, though. It always had, but the effect was more noticeable now. It helped obscure his scars some, draining the color from the marks that still remained pink and angry, turning the smaller ones into lines of mercury that glinted like spider webs in the silver light. As Vincent’s good hand struggled to unknot his house robe, Veld rested a hand on his chest, palm covering the scar on the center of his sternum, thumb stroking the puckered mark thoughtfully. The stitching on this wound had been different, neat and careful sutures in comparison to the staples Hojo and favored. In fact, it reminded him of Vincent’s other scars, from all the wounds Veld’s own practiced, precise hand had tended to in their Turk days.

“…You wouldn’t be here with me, would you?” Veld realized quietly after a while. “If it weren’t for her.”

“No,” Vincent confirmed in a whisper as he gave up on the knot and rested his hand over Veld’s on his chest instead.

“Then I guess I can’t hate her either,” Veld murmured, pulling Vincent back in for another kiss and catching his lower lip with his teeth. Veld untied his night robe for the other man, noticing his struggle, and Vincent slipped it off his shoulders before pushing him back against a nearby potting table, rough but careful. Vincent was gentler with him now than he’d once been. Though an outside eye might not be able to see it, he held back. Veld couldn’t help but wonder if Vincent was so cautious now because of his own strength, or because the younger man had noticed that he didn’t bounce back from the mutually enjoyed abuse as quickly as he once had—bruises taking longer to fade, soreness lingering in his muscles for days sometimes. Veld decided to take it as the former; he was just too aware of his own mortality lately, that was all. Sephiroth’s words had gotten in deeper than he’d realized.

Veld pushed the thoughts away and allowed himself to get lost in Vincent’s kisses again. Pants and underwear were hastily and carelessly discarded, Veld swearing a little against the cold. A moment later, though, he was gasping Vincent’s name, forgetting the discomfort of the winter chill, forgetting everything but the pleasure.

By the time they had finished, the knot of dread in Veld’s stomach had unwound, and he had forgotten whatever unease he’d felt at doing this beneath the open sky as he and Vincent collapsed in a tangle of limbs on the potting table, staring up at the stars. The butcher block countertop beneath them had warmed some with their body heat, but the chill winter air raised gooseflesh on their skin as their sweat cooled. 

“Mmm,” Veld hummed, fingers tangling in Vincent’s hair. “There’s a fire inside, you know. Nice and warm. The hell’d you leave it for in the first place?”

“It got us a moment alone, so are you really complaining?” Vincent purred into his chest, nuzzling against him as Veld absently stroked his hair.

“No,” Veld said softly, with a little chuckle. “Wasn’t complaining in the first place. Just curious. Everything alright?”

“…The nightmares have gotten worse again, ever since…” Vincent trailed off, but Veld knew the words he hadn’t spoken— _ever since Sephiroth tried to kill you._ “I was just restless.”

“Come back to bed,” bade Veld. “You should really try to get some rest before you hit the road tomorrow.”

Vincent gave a reluctant sight of agreement and lazily disentangled himself from Veld, who began looking around for his discarded clothes. Vincent followed suit.

“Shit. Candle’s out,” Veld noted as he returned to the table he’d left it on. The candlestick had already been half-burned already, but still, it hadn’t felt like _that_ long. He vaguely wondered how they had managed not to freeze to death.

“Scared of the dark, Veld?” Vincent teased with a smirk. “Would you like me to carry you?” Veld shoved him in reply to the taunt. They made their way back into the darkness of the house, and Vincent tried the switch for the first time in a while.

“Fucking finally,” Veld breathed in relief as the electric lights blinked on.

They took a hot shower together before heading back to bed, wincing a bit at the sting of the water on their cold-bitten skin, but after it finally thawed them, the warmth was ecstasy. They hadn’t done this in a while, Veld realized after a moment when he finally stepped out of Vincent’s arms and reached for the bar of soap. It had been routine back in Midgar, largely because the hot water at his apartment hadn’t lasted long, but they hadn’t particularly minded. They didn’t bathe together often now—a shame, since they finally had the jet tub they used to dream of—and Veld knew it was because Vincent was still self-conscious. Veld usually only saw him shirtless in bed, and he only stayed that way when they slept if he had fallen asleep in the afterglow. Otherwise, Vincent always redressed before crawling back under the covers. Veld had hoped, at first, that he would get over it in time, but it seemed less and less likely as time dragged on.

“I’ve missed this,” Veld admitted after a while, rinsing shampoo from his hair.

“Hot water?” Vincent questioned, and Veld chuckled a little.

“Well, yeah,” Veld laughed lightly. “But I meant showering with you.” He rested his open palm against Vincent’s lower back, liking the way his skin felt, slippery and silken to the touch, warmed by the heat of the water.

“I just…” Vincent began regretfully after a moment, but the rest of the words caught in his throat.

“I know, Vince,” Veld assured gently, resting his forehead between Vincent’s shoulder blades, arms wrapping the taller man in a hug. “I’m not trying to push you. I understand. I just…miss it.”

Vincent turned around to face him, though he didn’t draw away from the embrace, giving a soft sigh as he reached out to brush Veld’s wet hair back from his face.

“It doesn’t…bother you?” Vincent murmured. He flinched when Veld’s fingers rose to gently trace the worst of his scars—that “Y” shaped autopsy incision—but he didn’t draw away from the touch.

“…They made me angry for a while,” Veld admitted after a moment. “At Hojo, mostly, and at myself, for sending you away, for letting it happen. And at the Universe, I suppose, for forcing that pain on you, and for all the years we lost. They reminded me of everything that’s changed. Now,” he shrugged a little, “I don’t know. It’s like don’t really see them anymore.”

“You don’t see them anymore,” Vincent echoed disbelievingly, and Veld sighed.

“I mean, yeah, I _see_ them. They’re there. I have eyes. But I don’t really _register_ them anymore. The same way that if I asked you, you could probably tell me where all of my freckles are, which shoulder my birth mark’s on, but I bet you don’t actually consciously _notice_ those things every time you see me naked, you know?”

“That isn’t even remotely the same,” Vincent argued.

“Do you notice the scar on my cheek every time you look at me, then?” Veld prompted. Vincent watched the water swirl down the drain for a moment before glancing back up at Veld and giving a small, abashed smile.

“I…forget that it’s there, sometimes,” Vincent admitted, and Veld couldn’t help but chuckle quietly.

“Then why are you so surprised that it’s the same way for me?”

“Because it’s so much worse,” Vincent insisted. “I’m…”

“Beautiful,” Veld finished for him in a whisper. “The first thing you will _always_ be when I look at you is beautiful.”

“Veld,” Vincent murmured, his voice coming out small and just a bit pained.

“Hey,” the older man murmured in concern, cupping Vincent’s cheek. “What’s wrong?”

Vincent laughed quietly and pressed his lips to Veld’s forehead, right hand tangling in his hair as he pulled him closer.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Vincent assured. “I just really love you, and… sometimes, you almost make me love myself.”

The water was growing cool now, so Veld turned it off, though neither of them hurried to let go of the other and step out. 

“…We should try out that jet tub when I get back from Nibelheim,” Vincent suggested sheepishly after a while.

“Mmm,” Veld hummed in agreement. “I’ll have to go into town for more candles and some bubble bath while you’re gone.”

“Something to look forward to, then,” Vincent confirmed, pressing a kiss to Veld’s cheek.

The golden midday sunlight seemed unusually bright as it streamed unhindered through windows finally free of frost, and the sky outside the manor was vibrant and clear blue. Birdsong floated in on a gentle breeze, and from his bedroom window, Sephiroth watched a pair of cardinals hopping in the snow, scarlet like blood drops against the shimmering white. Outside, a car engine sputtered to life, and a few moments later, the noise was followed by the sound of the vehicle’s doors slamming closed and tires starting down the driveway. He watched the rented green station wagon disappear into the distance, not turning his eyes away until the car was a blip on the horizon.

Only then did he allow his eyes to fall to the box sitting beside him on his bed, though he still didn’t reach for it. It was an old shoebox. Plain black. Sturdy cardboard, battered just a bit at the edges. Even now, it smelled vaguely of the incense Vincent had once kept beside it in his sock drawer. Vincent had brought it to him that morning, shortly before informing him that he was leaving the manor.

“There’s something I need to take care of,” Vincent had vaguely explained. “Somewhere I have to go, just for a few days, and I need Gast to take me there. But I know I made a promise to you, and…I was hoping you would take this as proof that I intend to keep it. I...started writing these around the same time I started having a relationship with your mother. They’re addressed to Veld, but I never really intended to send them. They were more of a journal—a confessional—really…just in case.

“Before you read them, you should probably know a few things. I met your mother while I was working an assignment for Shinra. More accurately, she _was_ my assignment. She was a Shinra scientist, working under Gast, and I was sent to protect the research and personnel associated with the project. You should also know that you’ll find Hojo’s name in there, because at the time, he was working with them too. This…isn’t everything, but it’s the best way I know to paint you a picture of who she was. When I get back, I’ll answer any questions you have, and I’m going to tell you everything I know, not just about your mother, but about _you_ …” Vincent had set the box of letters down on his bed and taken a step forward then, resting one hesitant hand on Sephiroth’s shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “I hope that you can forgive me. That you can forgive us both.”

“For what?” Sephiroth had asked, and Vincent had let out a long, sad sigh.

“For the parts we played,” he murmured. “And for not telling you sooner.”

An old shoebox. Plain black. Sturdy cardboard, battered just a bit at the edges. There was no reason that it should frighten him so much. All it held was the truth, and that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? What he had asked for? No matter how dark, no matter how terrible. 

Through with hesitation, Sephiroth opened the lid, picked up the first letter, and began to read.

_Veld,_

_I don’t know if I’ll ever send this letter, but I can’t sleep, and I have to confess it somewhere, have to get it out, so I may as well start here. I slept with Lucrecia. I don’t know how I let it happen, how I let things go this far. Maybe I should have been grateful for the days when she avoided me like the plague. I didn’t even realize how deeply she’d gotten to me until she tugged me down onto that picnic blanket and I found myself utterly incapable of pulling away. I suppose that I could blame the wine we drank, but honestly, it wasn’t half as intoxicating as the sunlight in her hair, the smile dancing on her lips._

_Gaia, I’m sorry. When she asked me if I had a girlfriend, I didn’t think she was asking for_ permission _. I didn’t want to lie, but now I don’t know what to tell her. And I won’t lie—not here, at least—part of me doesn’t_ want _to tell her. I don’t want to lose her company. I can’t pretend that I’m not lonely here, and I admire her. She’s dedicated and brilliant, and she brings light to every room she enters. There’s little enough light here, in this gloomy old manor…_

A knock at the door jolted him back to awareness of the outside world, and he set the letter back down on his bed as he bade Veld to enter.

“Hey,” the man greeted as he slipped into the room, casting Sephiroth a small smile. “Figured you were probably hungry, so I brought you something to eat.” Sephiroth just nodded, and Veld set the plate he was carrying down on the dresser with a sigh. “Aerith’s getting a bath. She’ll probably be a while, but I told her to give you some time to yourself when she gets out. I’ll try to keep her busy for you.”

“…Thanks,” Sephiroth said simply after a beat. Veld gave an awkward nod and turned back towards the door, but Sephiroth called after him before he could leave. “Veld,” he began, and the man turned back towards him. “You’ve read these, haven’t you?”

“Yeah,” Veld confirmed.

“You were together already, when he left for Nibelheim, weren’t you?”

Veld gave a sigh. “…Yeah.” He took a hesitant step forward, and Sephiroth moved aside to make room for him on the bed. He knew what the boy was asking. “I didn’t find out until after…after I thought I had lost him. When I read those letters for myself the first time.”

“You weren’t angry?”

“Hurt, more than anything,” Veld admitted. “More at him actually falling in love with her than sleeping with her, though. We’d never been apart from each other before, never really had a need to talk about boundaries, and it’s… _hard_ , being alone. I won’t pretend like I didn’t succumb to my own temptations, like I didn’t take things too far when I was tipsy a few times. I get having needs. People fuck up sometimes.”

“That’s it?” Sephiroth questioned. “’People fuck up?’ And that somehow just means it doesn’t matter that they hurt you?”

“No,” Veld corrected gently. “But loving people _does_ mean getting hurt sometimes. That’s just a fact of life. We’re all human. We all make mistakes, and sometimes those mistakes are going to hurt the people we care about the most, whether we mean to or not. If someone really loves you, they’ll learn from those mistakes and try their best not to make them again, but in the end it’s still up to us to decide what hurts we can forgive and which ones we can’t.”

“How do you decide?” Sephiroth wondered aloud. “What things can be forgiven?”

“…I don’t think there’s a universal answer to that,” Veld acknowledged after a moment of thought. “Feelings aren’t usually logical things, no matter how much we try to make them be.”

A moment of silence passed, and Veld sighed again before rising to his feet.

“Look, if you need me, I’m here, okay?” he assured the teen sincerely. “I know Vince promised to talk to you when he gets back, but…if something’s bothering you, or you have questions you really need answered…even if you just need someone to talk to, don’t feel like you have to wait.”

“Thank you, Veld,” Sephiroth murmured.

“Anytime. About anything…You know that, right?”

Veld looked for a confirmation, but Sephiroth wasn’t meeting his eyes anymore, his gaze turned towards the window again. Veld settled back down on the mattress, because he had a good guess as to where the boy’s mind had wandered. It had been looming over them like a cloud this past week, grey and ominous, a threatening storm.

“We never really talked about what happened,” Veld observed aloud after a moment.

“…No,” Sephiroth acknowledged hesitantly.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Sephiroth answered, not needing to think it over. Veld realized that he probably should have expected that, gave a resigned sigh.

“Alright then,” he conceded. “Just…know that I don’t blame you, okay?”

“Because people fuck up?” Sephiroth mocked after a moment, some mix of sad and bitter. He looked surprised when Veld cupped his chin and dragged his eyes back towards his own. The boy had been sensitive once, about being touched unprompted, and though the reflexive flinch had faded with time, Veld still didn’t make a habit of it.

 _“Because that wasn’t you,”_ Veld stated firmly, his gaze boring into Sephiroth’s with intensity. “I _know_ you, kid. I know you would never do anything to hurt me, not on purpose.”

“I’ve tried to kill you twice,” the boy stated flatly, drawing away from Veld’s touch. “Hurt me once, shame on you, hurt me twice…Maybe it’s a saying you should learn to live by.”

“Sephiroth—”

“I said I didn’t want to talk about this,” Sephiroth interrupted firmly, turning his eyes away again so he didn’t have to see the pain that flickered across Veld’s face. The man closed his eyes and took a deep breath, let it out in a silent sigh.

“’Not talking about it doesn’t make it any better,’” he said softly after a moment, echoing Sephiroth’s own words from the day before. The youth stiffened a little, but Veld just continued on in the same tone. “I know you have other things on your mind right now, so I won’t pressure you, but ignoring this isn’t an option, because I am _not_ going to let you push me away because you’re afraid of yourself. Vincent tried that shit too. I love you entirely too much to lose you.”

“What do you think it feels like to _me_? How do you think it feels to know that I almost lost you—that _Vincent_ almost lost you—because I almost choked you to death? How do you think it felt to know you almost died and not even get to try to help or be happy you didn’t because _I was the reason?”_ Sephiroth’s voice broke, and it was only at that moment he realized how strained it had become, that he registered the burn of tears in his eyes.

“Hey,” Veld soothed with concern when they spilled over, leaning in a little to wrap an arm around the boy’s shoulders. Sephiroth tried hastily to wipe the tears away, murmuring an apology as he straightened and tried to pull himself back together, vaguely embarrassed by the outburst. “I _know_ you’re not apologizing for crying, kid,” Veld breathed tiredly. “Gaia, you’re allowed to _feel_ things, you know.”

_“I’ve never seen a child so calm while strapped down to an operating table.”_

_“What else would he be?” Hojo had replied to the young, dark-haired man on the observation deck beside him. Sephiroth wasn’t sure if the stranger had meant the words as a compliment, but it seemed like Hojo had taken them that way, his tone going smug the way it did when he felt like he’d accomplished something great. “Sephiroth is not a_ child _, so he does not_ behave _as a child does. What would you expect of him, Director Tuesti? Hysterical tears? He has not cried since he was an infant.”_

_Hojo had said the words like they were praise, more evidence that Sephiroth was superior to other children, superior to them all, but truthfully, he didn’t cry because he had never gained any comfort from the act as an infant. His tears had never brought anyone rushing to his aide to cradle him close and soothe him, never awarded him any attention at all, and the instinct was killed before it could be reinforced._

_Hojo had deemed emotions a weakness. They stood in the way of objectivity, he had told the boy. They were a hindrance to intellectual and scientific progress. And so displays of emotion, when not outright ignored, were mocked or punished. So he learned to be cold, analytical, learned to detach himself from his feelings, to lock them away somewhere deep inside where they couldn’t earn him scorn. He had never truly escaped them, though, and for the longest time, he had hated himself for that._

_“An emotional response, nothing more,” were Hojo’s dismissive words to an orderly as the beeping of the monitoring equipment Sephiroth was hooked up to began to skyrocket with his heartrate, with his fear._

An emotional response, _he remembered thinking with dull shame. It wasn’t fair. He wasn’t crying. His face was passive. His breathing was steady. He had even managed to stop his hands from shaking. But still, there it was—an emotional response. His own heart was the traitor, its treachery on display for the world to see._

“Sephiroth?”

Veld’s voice jerked him back to reality once more, and he let out a shaky breath, wiping at his face again.

“I know,” the boy whispered, replying at last to Veld’s half-forgotten question. The man wrapped him in a loose hug, and he didn’t draw away. “If…you think that we should talk, we probably should, but I…want to be alone for a while, if that’s alright.”

“Of course,” Veld assured. “Like I said, no pressure. You’ve got other things on your mind. I’ll…come check up on you in a while, okay?”

Absently, he ruffled the boy’s hair a little as he drew away, and Sephiroth gave him a small, sad smile and a smaller nod. With one last backwards glance, Veld slipped from the room, leaving him alone with his letters again.

_…Lucrecia only sees what she wants to see. It’s both a blessing and a curse. I don’t suppose I should have been surprised to learn that she overlooks the darkness in the world, the darkness in other people, the same way she overlooks the darkness in me. It’s part of what makes her so beautiful, though, so bright, so pure. I wonder what the world must look like through her eyes, how wondrous a place it must be, to see only sunshine and never shadows. No wonder she’s always smiling, always laughing._

_I fear I paint her like a fool, sometimes, but she isn’t. Naïve, yes, but never a fool. She’s brilliant, and strangely perceptive, all things considered. I understand how she wound up here, how she earned her place on a priority project surrounded by men decades her senior. She goes on about her work sometimes—when she’s excited, which is often, or when she feels the need to fill the silence and can think of nothing else. I hate to see that passion wasted at Shinra, but she believes she can do good here. Who knows, perhaps she can. If anyone can make something positive come from the company, it’s Lu._

_It’s strange, the difference between her and the others when she talks. Even Gast, whose intentions are good, focuses on practicality and profit first and foremost—not that I blame him, he has to, in order to keep his funding—but with Lucrecia, everything is some grand scheme to save the world, to make the universe a better place. To the others, the Jenova Project is just a way to locate mako, but that’s only the beginning of what she’s hoping to accomplish here. She chastises the others for being short-sighted, for not aiming high enough—as if what they’re trying to accomplish here isn’t impossible enough already. I only hope that her talent proves equal to her ambition, though it’s admittedly hard to doubt her…_

Jenova… Where had Sephiroth heard that word before? 

“ _She needed to build a reputation for herself, and I suspect that she saw the Jenova Project as a way to garner the admiration and esteem she so longed for, but it was a dead-end, and even then, we were beginning to realize that. But I don’t know why, Vincent.”_

The sudden, stabbing pain in his skull jolted Sephiroth from the thoughts, and for a moment, his vision flashed, images coming to him through the tunnel of blackness invading the edges of his sight.

_Metal skin stretched over a sprawling steel skeleton, plastic veins pumping mako like blood, flowing from the heart of the reactor, where the lifeblood of the Planet spilled forth from an open wound, green and vital._

Sephiroth winced against the pain, trying to blink the visions away, but they pulled him in deeper.

_The hum of machinery, the sweet scent of ether, the air dry and cold against his skin. The metal floor chill against his bare feet. His breath steaming in the air._

**_My child…_ **

Sephiroth pushed his palms into his eye sockets until everything went white, growling in frustration as the pain grew sharper. It vanished as quickly as it had come, though a lingering ache remained, pulsing behind his eyes in time to his heartbeat. He took in the familiar interior of his bedroom through hazy eyes, open hand fisting into his comforter. He grounded himself in the feeling, breathed deeply the way Vincent had taught him. It was only when reality settled firmly back around him that the boy realized he was shaking.

He made his way unsteadily to his feet and stumbled towards the nearest bathroom, turning the faucet on cold and splashing a cupped handful of icy water across his face. His reflection stared back at him from the glass, slit-pupiled. And then his reflection smiled. A menacing thing, all teeth.

“Sephiroth?” a voice chirped hesitantly from behind the half-pulled shower curtain. A moment later, Aerith’s face peeked out, bubbles clinging to her sopping curls. She took him in for a moment, concerned. “…Are you okay? Your eyes are glowing.”

Just his face in the mirror again, wide-eyed and horrified, but he turned away from the glass just in case. The tremors had only gotten worse, and his breathing was unsteady again. He closed his eyes and focused on it once more. Deep breath in through the nose, cool in his windpipe. Hold, the world going just a bit quieter. Out through the mouth, slow and controlled. Again and again until it no longer took effort.

It was around that time that a small, damp face pressed into his side, and he opened his eyes to find Aerith clinging to him gently, hair still dripping, wrapped in a fuzzy towel.

“You should come downstairs,” she said after a little while, finally detaching herself from him. “Veld said he’d make us hot chocolate, and that after a little while we can go play outside in the snow.”

Sephiroth wanted to be alone. Even the idea of keeping up a calm front right now exhausted him, and he knew both of them would likely see right through it besides. He didn’t want to talk about this, about anything. At the same time, though, he was terrified to be alone, terrified of these strange visions he was becoming more and more convinced weren’t his own, terrified that in the silence, the voice might come back.

“I just…don’t feel like it right now,” he said at last, and he left before she could argue, before he had to face her disappointment.

_“She needed to build a reputation for herself, and I suspect that she saw the Jenova Project as a way to garner the admiration and esteem she so longed for, but it was a dead end, and even then, we were beginning to realize that. But I don’t know why, Vincent.”_

They had been talking about his mother, he realized.

Why _what_? Sephiroth couldn’t help but wonder for the first time.

“ _I don’t think being a parent scared her, but doing it alone would have meant giving up her career, and the walls felt like they were closing in around her. She was afraid it might be the last time she would have a chance to prove herself, but biology dictated the timeline, and she knew we would never finish before she had to return home to care for an infant. So I think she decided to…cut a few corners.”_

She had been pregnant with him while working on the project, clearly. The project in Nibelheim. The project where Vincent had died. For the first time, that truly dawned on him.

_“I was a Turk,” Vincent had told him when they first met. “Got picked up by the company when I was twelve, and I belonged to them for more than a decade. I got put on an assignment guarding some scientists. It should have been easy, but one of them took a disliking to me. Shot me in the chest, convinced everyone I was dead, and kept me to experiment on.”_

Hojo had killed Vincent in Nibelheim, while he was on an assignment guarding his mother.

_“You should also know that you’ll find Hojo’s name in there, because at the time, he was working with them too.”_

Pieces falling together in his mind, jumbled and disjointed, but beginning to form a picture.

“ _She was afraid it might be the last time she would have a chance to prove herself, but biology dictated the timeline, and she knew we would never finish before she had to return home to care for an infant. So I think she decided to…cut a few corners.”_

 _“Cut a few corners,” Veld had echoed, furious. “Yeah, that’s one fucking way to say it, isn’t it?”_ So furious. Why had he been so furious? Why would Veld possibly have cared about some Shinra experiment that had ended a decade and a half ago enough to be angry about it? What corners had she cut, his mother?

Mother. Hojo had been working with his mother. Hojo had told Sephiroth that his mother had made him what he was—better, special, more than human—but Lucrecia had been none of those things. She was just a woman, a normal human woman, no matter how brilliant people claimed she was. What had he meant?

 ** _My_** _child **…**_ words spoken in a voice only he could hear, in a language his ears couldn’t understand, but that his mind interpreted clearly.

Who was the woman who whispered to him in his dreams? Who called him her child and beckoned him to her with cloying, sinister sweetness?

The headache was back now, and it might as well have been a bullet to his brain. He felt it cease all function, just lumps of useless gray matter as his vision went white and a ringing entered his ears. Vague awareness of the mattress beneath him as he collapsed into bed, curling instinctively into a pillow in an attempt to blot out the blinding light behind his retinas.

_The next moment, he was in a very different mansion. Gone was the sunlight that danced through the abundant windows of the Valentine estate. Gone were the gardens and the birdsong they drew, the comforting noises of inhabitance, the familiar scent of patchouli that always lingered in the air. The warmth. The love._

_The manor was dark and gloomy, all narrow, twisting corridors and lingering shadows. He left it as quickly as he could, feet hurrying down and down and down the winding staircase and out the heavy front doors, up the mountain and towards the reactor that loomed in the distance, a steel tumor on the idyllic landscape._

_Sephiroth climbed. And he entered._

_Metal skin stretched over a sprawling steel skeleton, plastic veins pumping mako like blood, flowing from the heart of the reactor, where the lifeblood of the Planet spilled forth from an open wound, green and vital._

_Wound. A wound in the Planet. A crater, dark and cold and gaping… But no. This was a different wound. A man-made wound. A new prison. Prison? What prison? Whose prison?_

_The hum of machinery, the sweet scent of ether, and the air was dry and cold against his skin. The cold of the metal floor bit his bare feet, and his breath steamed in the air._

**_Come to me…_ **

_Sephiroth made his way through the interior of the reactor, the twisted metal bowels of a man-made monstrosity, following the echo of that voice. A woman’s voice, as familiar to him as his own, speaking words in a language he’d never heard but could somehow understand._

**_Follow me…_ **

_Left turn, right turn, through a sliding doorway that opened as he approached._

**_My child…_ **

_He reached the heart of the reactor, where a woman stood before him, naked, head bowed, arms crossed over her chest, bathed in the green light of the mako. Her mouth didn’t move as she spoke, but he heard the words again, indecipherable yet echoing in his head._

**_Come home…_ **

_The woman’s hair was silver. It floated in the air around her, divorced from gravity, as if she were suspended in water instead of air. slowly, She raised her head. Her face was his face, only feminine, sharp and delicate and beautiful. Her left eye glowed red._

**_Release me…_ **

_A mako tank at the heart of a different reactor, metal cables twisting from the tank like veins. Inside the mako tank, the woman floated, arms crossed over her chest, naked, fetal. A metal plaque adorned her brow like an iron crown. In bold, capital letters, the inscription read: JENOVA._

**_Claim your destiny…_ **

Sephiroth was released from the vision, gasping, and vomited into the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took ~forever~ and I really have no excuse. I just s t r u g g l e d with this one for some reason. Hopefully I can get back in my groove soon. As always, thanks for reading and all your wonderful comments. They give me life even if my ADHD ass is awful at replying to them.


	15. As Sure as the Sun Will Rise

_Vincent closed his eyes, and the suffocating darkness bloomed into color, into visions, memories dancing behind his eyelids. Beneath the gently swaying boughs of the tall, sturdy oak, he reclined in the grass and listened to the birdsong. Around him, wildflowers danced in the wind, and if he tried, he could almost feel the warmth of the early spring breeze on his skin chasing away the chill, could almost smell the flowers, the ghost of their fragrance lingering for a moment over the odor of cedar and rot._

_A giggle sounded on the breeze, light and ethereal, and then she was there, peering down at him with mischievous eyes, a smile twisting the plump bow of her lips._

_“And_ how _are you supposed to be my bodyguard if you’re up here_ sleeping?” _she chided teasingly._

_“…Lucrecia,” he breathed._

_“Sleeping_ alone, _too,” she tutted, crouching down in the grass beside him, something yearning creeping into her eyes, “when you could be sleeping with me.”_

_Slender, manicured fingers walked their way slowly up his thigh, deftly unclasped the top button of his trousers. She snaked into his lap, naked now, hair let down and falling in soft torrents over her shoulders, across the heavy roundness of her breasts. He brought his mouth to hers, claiming her with a kiss, her taste sweet like the milk and honey she took with her tea. Her hands trailed across shoulders, the unblemished skin of his chest. He lifted her off of him so he could discard his pants, rolled her body beneath his in the grass._

_The way her body arched to his touch was as familiar as the breathy moan she gave as he entered her, as familiar as the kisses she pressed shakily to his skin as they made love. In the afterglow, he cradled her in his lap, her cheek resting comfortably on his shoulder as he stroked her hair. For a moment, it seemed like she might doze off there in his arms, but she stiffened suddenly, every muscle in her body suddenly going rigid in panic._

_“Lucrecia?” Vincent murmured with concern, drawing away to glance at her. Her face had grown distant, vacant. She stared forward with hollow, unseeing eyes. “Lucrecia?” he repeated, louder now._

_A tremor shook her frame, and her hands shot out to grasp his shoulders, nails digging into skin. He winced, gently trying to pry her hands away, but she just gripped him tighter._

_“Lu, you’re hurting me.” He gave up trying to break her grip and shook her gently instead. Had she fallen asleep? Was she having a nightmare? She’d had those, hadn’t she? She was wearing her nightgown now even, soft white silk and trimmed in delicate lace, a gift from Hojo._

_Hojo? No, that was wrong. She was_ his, _and she hadn’t had nightmares. Not before. Not when she was his. But she hadn’t worn this gown when she was his, hadn’t_ owned _this gown when she was his. This was all wrong, and he didn't want to see where it was going._

_“Lucrecia, wake up,” he pleaded. “Please wake up.”_

_Any moment now, she would wake, laugh away his concerns. Chide him for his worry, joke about falling asleep. Any moment now, things would go back to normal. She would wake, and she would smile, and the dark shadow of this nightmare would flee from it like the sun._

_Vincent reached out with his left hand to cup her cheek, froze at the sight of the golden gauntlet. One of Lucrecia’s hands left his shoulder and began to idly trace the puckered lines of scar tissue marring his flesh._

_He recoiled instinctively, both from the touch and the dark reality that had begun to bleed into his fantasies, dumping Lucrecia unceremoniously from his lap as he backpedaled away. She didn’t react to the movement, remaining still, head bowed. With horror, he watched blood slowly start to stain the lap of her gown._

_“Lucrecia,” he choked, pleading._

_When she finally raised her face to his, her eyes were unearthly green and slit-pupiled, and blood ran in a scarlet rivulet from a wound between her eyes._

_Lucrecia opened her mouth and began to scream. And scream. And scream. Vincent couldn’t move as Lucrecia poured out her terror and the blood continued to bloom on white satin, couldn’t run, because there was nowhere to run to. He was trapped, even here. His body knew that, even if his mind sometimes forgot it. So he shook her instead, screamed, begged._

_As abruptly as the first time, she fell still again. He released her as if he’d been scalded, shaking with panic that was building to sobs. Her left shoulder was bleeding where he’d clutched her. He closed his eyes and willed it all away, willed himself back to the dark, to the smell of cedar and rot, but the nightmare clung._

_“…Vincent?” Lucrecia questioned in a cautious whisper. His eyes snapped open, glimmering with tears when they met hers, which were warm and concerned and a rich, familiar brown once more. The blood was gone, her hair was pulled back in a neat tail, and her lab uniform had replaced her bloodstained nightgown._

_“Lu?” he croaked._

_“Vincent…Is that…is that really you? …Can you really hear me?”_

_“…Of course I can hear you,” he replied, confused. Her eyes went wide, and she scrambled towards him, grasping desperately at his hands, heedless of the sharp edges of his gauntlet._

_“Vincent, I need you to listen to me,” she begged hastily. “We did something terrible, Vincent. I did something terrible, and our son… We made a mistake. She isn’t what she thought she was, and—”_

_“What are you talking about, Lu?” Vincent interrupted gently. “You aren’t making any sense.”_

_“Listen to me!” she snapped. “There isn’t much time. It’s a monster, a virus. They call it the Calamity.”_

_There was nothing but the cold, dark emptiness of space, the void stretching out into eternity. Then, a fiery descent. An impact. A crater. Ice, ice everywhere, cold and stinging. Vincent watched the villagers disappear into the crater to investigate, watched them come back out twisted and wrong, watched as they tore their neighbors apart, splashing the white snow with scarlet blood-spatter that steamed in the cold._

_A moment of darkness._

_V_ _incent opened his eyes, and they were in Nibelheim again, except Nibelheim was on fire. The water tower blazed like a torch against the smoke-dark horizon. Screams echoed through the haze. He was on his knees beside the burnt-matchstick skeleton of the bakery, Lucrecia kneeling before him in the blood-churned dirt. Though this was a dream, he could feel the heat, the burn of the smoke as he inhaled, the bite of the embers floating on the wind as they hit his skin._

_“Vincent!” Lucrecia yelled, trying to bring his attention back to her. Her face looked panicked now, and she was hazy through the smoke. “You have to find him!” She yelled over the roar of the flames, but her voice sounded distant, as if it were coming to him through a long tunnel._

_“Find who?” he yelled back in reply, closing his eyes to wipe away the sting of the smoke. When he blinked them open again, he was amidst a different set of ruins, standing in the streets of a Midgar that was crumbling around him as fire fell from the heavens like rain. Nearby, one of the Reactors erupted. The sky overhead was red and angry, a blazing ball of fire swallowing whole the blue._

_“You have to stop Sephiroth!” Her voice was nothing more than a desperate plea on a distant wind now. When he glanced around at the chaos in the streets surrounding him to find her, she flickered like a glitching hologram._

_Blink. The ruins were gone. So was Lucrecia. He was alone beneath the oak tree again, staring at the sky. Somewhere in the distance, a bird twittered. He took a deep breath, held it, let it slowly back out. Just a nightmare. Only a dream._

_A dream._ Was _this a dream? The field of flowers? The birdsong? Or was it just a memory, a delusion in his head? Was there even a difference, anymore? Reality faded in and out like a daydream. Time crept on like a long fall down an endless, dark well, immeasurable and meaningless. When he closed his eyes there was darkness, and when he opened them, darkness greeted him once more, but sometimes in the space between, his mind wove a tapestry of visions over the black. Waking, asleep, it was all the same._

_He closed his eyes once more._

_Then laboratory lights flickered on overhead, intruding on the dark surrounding him, and Vincent tried to will them away. He closed his eyes, but they remained, blooming behind his eyelids, wavering and crackling at first, but finally burning bright and steady. The glow kept growing whiter and more painful until he opened his eyes to meet it._

_The first thing he became aware of was the pain. It was always the pain. How many times had he woken here, on this operating table, to this same pain? He had faded in and out of awareness during Hojo’s experiments, but no matter what had been done to him while he was under, the initial pain was always the same when he grew lucid again, so overwhelming his brain couldn’t interpret where the specific injuries were located and registered the feedback as all-consuming agony instead._

_As the pain faded, became localized, his vision crept in next, a blinding white that slowly dimmed enough to let him make out shapes, then colors. The haze refused to leave entirely, though. Some strange sort of fog lingered over his mind, like the world was suddenly underwater._

_“Gods and Gaia,” breathed the last voice in the world Vincent had ever wanted to hear again. “It worked. Her harebrained theory actually worked.” Hojo cackled unpleasantly at that, the noise like nails on a chalkboard against Vincent’s ears._

_Vincent tried to move, but he was strapped down to the table, bands of metal cold against his ankles and wrists, a leather belt tight against his waist. His attempts at struggling felt strange and uncoordinated, and for a moment the agony blinded him again as his movements tore stitches and set his muscles on fire._

_“There’s no point in struggling,” Hojo sneered. “You’re strapped down and heavily sedated. I’m amazed you are even awake. It seems I underestimated how much the changes to your body would make you resist the dosage. No matter.”_

_Dimly, Vincent registered the prick of a needle, a vague burning as the liquid was pushed into his veins. Hojo gave a curious hum then, turning his attention to the stitches Vincent had pulled in his struggling. “Impressive,” he mused. “Healed already.”_

_Vincent flinched as Hojo placed his fingers over the spot, plucking out one of the metal staples still half-hanging in his skin. Vincent turned his attention to the place of contact, and for a moment, he simply stared down at himself in dumb horror, trying to comprehend what he was looking at. It wasn’t him, couldn’t be. It was an autopsy cadaver, one that had suffered a gruesome death before being surrendered over to science and clumsily taken apart by some medical student for research before being re-stuffed with its organs and sloppily stapled closed._

_Hojo pulled out another staple. Vincent whimpered. Whatever drugs Hojo had given him were dragging him under again, and he welcomed it, anything to escape that horrific cadaver whose pain he could feel. He chased the dark, but he still couldn’t escape the lab, Hojo’s satisfied smile as he plucked staple after staple from Vincent’s skin, savoring the flinch every time._

_“Vincent,” a voice called from the beckoning haze in his mind. “Vincent, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”_

_He opened his eyes, and for a moment light blinded him again. It wasn’t the cold, harsh light of Hojo’s laboratory, though, rather the warm midday sun over Nibelheim. He was beneath the oak tree again, in their picnic spot, and Lucrecia was staring down at him, a scowl on her lips._

_“Did you listen to a word I said?” she chided._

_“I…” he began, trying to think back. She had said something, hadn’t she? Something that had seemed important. What?_

_“How are you supposed to save anyone if you’re down here sleeping?”_

_Sleeping._

_Gasping, Vincent woke,_ really _woke, to the dark and suffocating confines of his coffin, to the stench of rot and the smell of cedar and the demons that screamed in his head, demanding release. He growled, the sound rumbling out deeper than should have been possible for a human man, but he_ wasn’t _a human man anymore, was he? He was a monster, an abomination, a scientific aberration, a cadaver brought back to something resembling life, and he had no intention of letting the creature he'd become ever see the light of day._

_He tried to slow his breathing, tried to regain his calm, tried to ignore the agony as his body began to change, Galian Beast wrestling him for dominance. Still half-lost in his nightmare, mind hazy from sleep, Vincent had been no match for the monster. He was lost for a while as the Beast took the reins and pounded at the lid of their mutual prison, gouging at the lid of the casket with sharp claws until, exhausted, it gave up._

_Once Vincent regained control of his body once more, sobs took him_

_How are you supposed to save anyone if you’re down here sleeping?_

“Vincent?” Ifalna’s quiet voice startled him from his thoughts. “Are you alright?”

“Just…remembering,” he explained, so quietly his rumbling voice barely carried over the crashing of the waterfalls. _How long have you been speaking to me in my dreams?_ he wondered absently to himself.

“Do you want company?” she offered. Vincent was quiet for a moment, his gaze turned towards the entrance to the cave.

“…No,” he murmured at last. “I would rather do this alone, I think. Will…she be able to hear me?”

“I’m not sure,” Gast admitted regretfully. Vincent just nodded, and without another word, made his way towards Lucrecia’s cave.

Inside the cavern, the noise from the waterfalls faded quickly, sound dampened by the stone that surrounded him, and the little grotto nestled in the heart of the cave was nearly silent, a sacred hush wrapping the space. Softly glowing crystals outlined the edge of the underground lake in front of him, lighting the path, and the surface of the lake was still and smooth as glass. Across the stretch of water, Lucrecia was encased in a glowing crystal tomb.

Vincent paused at the water’s edge, unable to move closer. Her crystal coffin was clear enough to see through easily, encasing her entirely. Were it not for her funeral pose—arms crossed somberly across her chest—she would have simply looked like she was sleeping, looking every bit as vibrant and alive as she did in his dreams. It had been fifteen years since he had seen her last, but he still knew her face as well as his own.

“Lucrecia,” he breathed, and his feet began to carry him forward without his consent. The water was cold, but he hardly noticed even noticed the bite of it. As abruptly as his feet had begun moving forward, they stopped, leaving him waist-deep in the lake.

For a long while after that, his voice caught in his throat, thoughts a jumble of image and emotion that threatened to overwhelm him.

“…I don’t know what to say,” he admitted at last. “I don’t even know if you can hear me. I’m not even sure if you’re really alive anymore.” Vincent let out a sharp, bitter noise that wasn’t a laugh. “Well, I can empathize with _that_ at least—not quite knowing whether you’re alive or dead. I’m still not sure exactly where I fall. You had a choice in the matter, though, so I hope you at least understand your predicament better than I do my own.”

Only silence from Lucrecia, though Vincent hadn’t really expected anything else. He let out a deep, aggravated sigh, fighting back the urge to yell at her. All of those years in the coffin, all the times she had entered his dreams in an attempt to guilt him into cleaning up their mess, and she had been here sleeping too. The hypocrisy of it struck him for the first time.

 _“How are you supposed to save anyone if you’re down here sleeping?”_ Vincent murmured, mostly to himself. “But I guess you just expected me to take care of it alone, didn’t you? I suppose I don’t have a choice... I never seem to get a choice in matters, do I?”

Vincent shook his head, his ire rising to the surface again.

“Fuck, Lu, how _could_ you? This was _our_ mistake, _our_ responsibility! How could you just leave me here to deal with it all alone? Just _trap_ me here for eternity and flee all responsibility? Sephiroth needed you. He needed both of us, and you never even gave me a _chance_ , never even told me that he was mine!” Dimly, Vincent became aware that he was yelling and drew in a few deep, shaky breaths, making his way back to the bank of the pond and settling down heavily. There was no use in screaming at a dead woman.

“Why?” he exhaled at last, desperately. Asking questions of the dead seemed just as pointless, but he uttered the word anyway.

_I’m so sorry…_

Vincent’s eyes darted up at the sound of the faint voice, but Lucrecia hadn’t stirred. She was still sleeping, somber and still as death. Had he imagined it? It wasn’t as if hearing voices was something exactly unusual for him. Regardless, he pressed on.

“Why did you do it? Hojo, the stem cell injections, the lies? …Why did you _bring me back?_ Gaia, Lucrecia, I know you were only trying to save me, but don’t you see that you damned me instead? Damned all of us? And perhaps that’s my punishment. Maybe I deserve it, but Sephiroth doesn’t.”

_Vincent…_

_…I’m so sorry…_

“I’m….angry with you,” Vincent admitted aloud at last. “Angrier than I realized, but that isn’t why I’m here. I need answers. You’ve been talking to me for years, haven’t you? In my dreams? I think that _thing_ is talking to him the same way, influencing him. I need to know how to make it stop.”

_You have to stop him…_

_…before it’s too late…_

A flash of white blinded him momentarily, and when Vincent reopened his eyes, he was no longer standing in the cave. He was watching Nibelheim burn again.

_A swordsman dressed in black stood outlined against the raging inferno that had once been Nibelheim, his katana dripping blood, silver hair flowing down his back like liquid mercury. Vincent couldn’t see his face, but it didn’t matter. How could any father not know his own son? The swordsman in black turned to face him, slit-pupiled eyes honing in on Vincent, bright and aquamarine._

_Sephiroth’s mouth twisted into a smile—a sharp, menacing thing. Unlike the time he had attacked Veld, Sephiroth appeared lucid. Vincent had seen this same look on his face scores of times when they were training together, too many times to convince himself that anything other than Sephiroth was controlling his actions. He had chosen this, and he was_ enjoying _it._

“Why are you showing me this?” Vincent breathed, trying to shake the images away, but new ones merely replaced them.

_There was a platform above an underground lake where a young woman in a red jacket knelt, hands clasped and head bowed in prayer. Something about her immediately struck Vincent as familiar, but he didn’t have time to place her. Sephiroth stood behind her on the platform, sword drawn. Vincent tried to call out a warning, but it was too late. The girl’s green eyes went wide as Sephiroth ran her through._

_Sephiroth was standing atop the Shinra Building, gazing out over Midgar with satisfaction as the city crumbled below and screams echoed up to him on the wind. Above him, the sky was on fire. Around him, tornadoes of flame tore the city apart. Sephiroth rose his arms to the heavens, welcoming the chaos he'd wrought._

“That’s enough!” Vincent snapped, and when she released him from the visions, he was trembling a bit despite himself. “How do you know this?” He wondered aloud before answering the question himself a beat later. “They’re visions, aren’t they? The nightmares you had while you were pregnant? The ones you passed along to me.”

_…I’m so sorry…_

“You don’t know him,” Vincent protested, shaking his head. “The future you showed me… he could never.”

_…He wants to kill the Planet…_

Without word, without expression, Vincent stood and made his way towards Lucrecia’s crystal tomb. Were it not for the tremble in his fingers as he reached for the photograph in his shirt pocket, he would have appeared calm. It was the same family photo he’d shown Gast. He wasn’t sure that she could see it, but he held it up anyway. In it, all three of them were a bit disheveled from the move, and Sephiroth’s hair had half-escaped the bun he’d put it in. His cheeks were the slightest bit flushed from recently spending too much time in the sun, and the smile he wore was sincere even if it didn’t show his teeth. It was one of those rare occasions the boy looked his age, fourteen and innocent. For a long while, Vincent thought in silence, trying to decide on what to say. At last, he set the picture down on the crystals at her feet and began to speak.

“…Sephiroth wants a cat, but he won’t ask us for permission. Doesn’t want to demand too much, or make us say no, I suppose, but he has names for every stray in town. One of them just had a litter of kittens he doesn’t know about yet. When they’re old enough, we plan on bringing one home as a surprise... He wants to go back to Wutai in the Spring because he loves the cherry blossoms. He wants to hear me play piano alone because Veld bragged about how good I used to be, but he knows that’s not possible right now, so he also wants to find some way to help me with this.” He gestured to his gauntlet dismissively. “Sephiroth does _not_ want to kill the Planet.”

The visions disturbed him, though. He couldn’t lie.

“He’s not a monster, Lucrecia,” Vincent whispered. “He’s our son. He’s too much like me—I’m sorry for that—but he isn’t evil. If you could meet him, you would know that.”

As Vincent stared at her through her crystal prison, a tear rolled down her cheek. The ghost of her voice was gone, and Vincent couldn’t help but wonder which one of them the tear was for.

“Sephiroth?” Veld called from the other side of Sephiroth’s bedroom door. After a beat of silence, the man rapt on it gently, a short, thoughtless little rhythm. Sephiroth held his silence, and he heard Veld breathe a sigh. “Is it okay if I come in?” the man asked directly at last.

“Sure,” Sephiroth replied colorlessly, not raising his voice. He didn’t really care whether or not Veld heard him. A moment later, the knob turned hesitantly, and Veld slipped in. The boy was sitting on his bed, reclined back against the wall, gaze fixed out the window. The box of letters was still beside him, mostly untouched.

“You didn’t come down for dinner,” Veld observed quietly. It wasn’t a question, so Sephiroth didn’t answer. Veld tried again. “Is everything okay?”

“Why are you asking questions you already know the answers to?” Sephiroth responded absently.

“I’m worried about you,” Veld confessed. There was no point trying to skirt around that fact. “…I’m worried that something is really bothering you, and—” and it was back again, the creeping dread “—I just wish that you would talk to me.”

Sephiroth still didn’t look at him, his face a passive mask in the cold glow of the moonlight, and when he finally spoke, his voice was cool and toneless.

“What’s Jenova?”

Veld flinched.

“Oh, is this not the conversation you wanted to have?” Sephiroth said in the same not-tone.

Veld pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, squeezed his eyes closed. “ _God-fucking-shit_ —” the man cursed to himself, almost inaudibly.

“Seph—” Veld began more calmly after a deep breath, but the boy cut over him.

“I don’t want to talk,” Sephiroth stated. He didn’t need to talk. He knew where to get all of the answers he needed. For a long while, Veld stared at him helplessly. Sephiroth still didn’t turn to meet the man’s eyes, though he could feel Veld’s gaze on him.

_I’m going to fucking kill you when you get home, you asshole_ , Veld thought to himself. Gaia, why had he ever let Vincent leave? He was woefully unequipped to handle this himself, and he cursed both himself and Vincent for not anticipating this. The boy was bright. It was only a matter of time before he put the pieces together, if he hadn’t already.

“When Vincent gets back, I’ll deck him for both of us, okay?” Veld muttered, tiredly and without humor. He glanced back at the letters on Sephiroth’s bed. “You really should read those.”

Sephiroth finally turned to look at him. “They don’t have the answers I’m looking for, do they?”

“Not all of them,” Veld admitted. Vincent had barely even mentioned the project in his letters, and that’s clearly where the boy’s focus was now. He wasn’t sure what the kid had managed to overhear, but it had obviously been enough. “But not many people get a chance to actually get to know their parents as _people,_ you know? With pasts and wants and flaws. Hell, I was nine before I even learned my mother’s first name… You should read them,” he urged again gently before making his way back over to the door. Sephiroth had stopped looking at him again, though, so Veld just exited with a sigh.

Sephiroth wasn’t sure how much time had passed when the second knock came, but he knew that it was getting late, too late for Veld to bother him again, he was fairly sure. After a beat of silence, the knock came again, accompanied by a small voice.

“Sephiroth?” Aerith called quietly. “Are you still awake?”

He rose and met her at the door instead of responding, swinging it open a crack so they didn’t have to speak through it. She was wearing a borrowed nightgown that utterly swallowed her, and was clutching a teddy bear in her arms.

“Is everything alright?” he asked gently. She shifted her toe around, staring down at the floor for a second before replying.

“It’s scary all alone here at night,” she admitted hesitantly, a bit of a blush coloring her cheeks. She didn't like being afraid. “Is… it okay if I sleep in here with you?”

Sephiroth realized as he looked down into her pleading eyes that he was utterly incapable of saying no. He couldn’t in good conscious tell the girl to get over her fear and go back to her own room, not when she had trusted him enough to admit it. He opened the door a bit more and stepped aside to let her enter.

This was the last thing he needed tonight, but he could be patient until she fell asleep. It didn’t take her long, and for a while he just laid there, staring up at the ceiling as she drifted off beside him, curled up close to his side like a kitten.

At last, he disentangled himself from her carefully and rose to his feet, pausing a moment to make sure she didn’t wake. Dimly, he hoped she would manage to sleep through the rest of the night. If she woke to find him missing and ran to Veld, this could all be over before he even had a chance. Sephiroth crept from his room and quietly made his way down the hall to Veld’s door, listening for the man’s snores before pushing it open. His PHS was charging on the nightstand, and Sephiroth slipped it into his pocket, just in case. When he was finished with that, he made his way downstairs to the change jar, fishing out a pocketful of larger coins.

It would be more than enough to buy him a ticket to Nibelheim.


End file.
